Mishmash
by Nia River
Summary: Odds and ends, and bits and bobs. False starts and story ideas that fizzled out. Mostly Harry Potter, but some other fandoms too.
1. 01: Morally Flexible Redo

**Posted**: 21 April, 2012

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything in this story that is recognisable from the Harry Potter books, movies, etc. Everything else however (eg. story plot, original characters, etc.) stems from my own imagination and belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended and I am not profiting financially from this story in any way.

**Summary**: Odds and ends, and bits and bobs. False starts and story ideas that fizzled out. Mostly Harry Potter, some other fandoms too.

**A/N**: So basically, I have literally hundreds of thousands of words written of story ideas that stalled before they really got started. Some are really short, some fairly long. I know some authors post all these little plot bunnies together in one story, each as a separate chapter, and decided to do the same. Hope you all get some entertainment out of it.

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**01: Morally Flexible Redo**

Harry opened his eyes and stared up at the dim underside of a set of stairs. His lips twitched and contorted into a truly odd expression. It was like he couldn't decide whether to smirk in triumph, or give a wide almost hysterical smile. Both expressions would have been fitting, given the situation. He'd finally succeeded, his plan had worked. It was a triumph. It was also elating to the point of hysteria. Though, now that he thought of it, the later was probably due to the fact that he was still coming down from the huge high of the dark ritual that had sent him back. There was something about human sacrifice that just made a person feel all giddy.

He hopped up from his old, rickety camp bed only to grimace as a fractured arm twinged, and his bruised ribs throbbed. With determination Harry pushed the pain to the back of his mind. He had more important things to do right now. Without a second thought, he pushed open the door to the cupboard under the stairs, walked down the corridor and through the kitchen to the back door, and exited the house. It was still early morning, and the light had that washed-out pre-dawn grey quality. He stuck to shadows and corners as he skirted around the back yard, so as not to be seen in the case of any early-rising nosy neighbours. At the far back corner, behind the potting shed, was the loose fence post he remembered. Breathing out and sucking his stomach in sharply he was able to scrape through the gap. He frowned a moment at that fact, and the reminder of his young body's malnourishment. He didn't dwell long though, having more important things to do. He looked about from where he stood in the back neighbour's garden. Once he was sure he was unseen, and knowing he was beyond the wards now that he'd left the Dursley property, Harry Apparated away.

It was disturbingly but conveniently easy to blend into the back alleys and streets of London. He wasn't about to thank the Dursleys of course, but with his scrawniness, worn second-hand clothes, plus some dirt rubbed into his skin artfully here and there, he blended right in with all the other street children. So long as he didn't attract enough attention for anyone to realise he was actually a stranger among them and grow suspicious, he was able to pass without a second glance as he dawdled near one of the less-popular entrances to the wizarding world, this one connecting to Knockturn Alley. Luck seemed on his side as it took him only an hour or so before a wizard exited, and moreover it was a distracted and dim-looking fellow whose wand could be seen poking out of his back pocket. Moody would disapprove of that, Harry thought with a hidden amusement, as he slipped past the wizard and pocketed the wand for himself, completely unnoticed. He sighed in relief as a few quick spells repaired his arm and eased his bruises.

After that Harry wandered some more around the streets till he found what he thought might be a good target. Just the right age; obviously homeless, but only for a short time since he wasn't yet too worn down, physically; certain vague similarities of features; and all alone smoking in an alley and looking generally depressed. As he approached, the man looked at him with a dismissive frown, and Harry took the opportunity to point his wand and cast "Legilimens." No, he corrected as he released the spell, and the man shook his head and began looking alarmed. No, not a good target, but a perfect one. No family, no friends, no connections. In other words, no one to miss him. Plus, a habit of slipping women mickies when he could manage to get his hands on some, a fact which appeased what little amount of conscience Harry had left. With a smirk he raised his wand again. The man began to back away, opened his mouth to yell, but it was too late.

"Imperio," Harry hissed. The man froze, eyes glazed. Harry poked and prodded at his sense of the mental connection between them, to make sure it was strong and would hold. It was of course, Harry being a deft hand at the Imperius, but it never hurt to make sure. "So, what's your name?" he asked.

"Shane Clarke."

"Alright. So tell me Shane," Harry asked with mock-chumminess, "if, _hypothetically,_ you had a son, what would you call him?"

A dull pause, then "Jared," he answered.

"Hmm, Jared Clarke," Harry said, tasting the sound of the name. He nodded. "Alright, doesn't sound hideous or stand out. Jared Clarke it is then." He narrowed his eyes on Shane, then smiled. Had he the ability to think or act of his own accord, Shane would have been inclined to shiver at the cold expression. "From now on, daddy dearest, I'm your son Jared, okay?"

Shane just nodded dumbly, unthinkingly obedient, as his mind drifted thinking of nothing but doing as the pleasant voice commanded.

..ooOOoo..

From there followed an Apparition to a coastal town Harry vaguely knew of, side-alonging Shane Clarke, his thrall, with him. It was early mid-morning by this stage, and he headed towards the beach, Shane following in his wake. There seemed to be no one about, but he spelled the public toilets there to repel Muggles just in case, and watched with amusement as a man staggered out, looking confused, then wandered away.

"Come on," he said, both verbally and over the mental connection, to his senseless thrall, entering the emptied facilities. It was only the Imperius, he knew, that stopped the man from being as confused by the charm as the other Muggle had been. Harry looked around then conjured a bar of soap and a small bottle of basic shampoo. It would only be temporary, but would last long enough to serve its purpose. "Clean up," he ordered, pointing at the shower stall. It was probably intended for washing away the sand and saltwater after swimming. "I'll be back soon."

Harry slipped out as soon as the thrall began undressing. Tapping his head and muttering the disillusionment charm, Harry then set off into the nearby town. From the clothesline of one unattended backyard he pilfered a pair of men's trousers and a button-down. Then, from another, he took a pair of jeans in roughly his size, along with a t-shirt. Clothes acquired, he made one last quick stop at the local Boots pharmacy, to pilfer some hair bleach, dye and gell, coloured contacts, and makeup foundation, before Apparating directly back to the toilets.

He grimaced on appearing, the site of a Clarke naked not being particularly appealing, before pushing aside his uncharacteristic surge of 'delicate sensibilities'. The man had cleaned himself well, but looked rather unhealthily skinny. Not as bad as Harry no doubt did, but enough to be noticeable like this. He made a note to fatten them both up. That could wait though. For now, Harry could move onto the next step.

"Turn off the shower," he ordered. Once the water stopped he flicked his wand, drying the man from head to toe. "Bend down so I can see your face better." Harry inspected the shape of the man's chin and jaw before muttering a shaving charm, causing the scraggly beard growth there to disappear. "Here, now put these clothes on. In fact, go do that in that stall over there, and close the door. Don't come out till I tell you."

Harry knew he was being ridiculous. The man was enthralled, and Harry was hardly a prude. Still, he waited till the door shut before stripping down and taking a quick but thorough shower. Once that was done he turned to his loot from the pharmacy. After studying the directions closely till he was sure he knew what he was doing, he proceeded to bleach his hair and, tentatively, his eyebrows. He grimaced, horrified, as the first effort turned them bright orange. Figuring it couldn't get much worse, he decided to try a second time in the vague hope it would fix things. After a longer wait, he was relieved to see a paler blonde colour where once there was black and then orange. The box of hair dye was used next to add some colour to Harry's hair, before he dried it and gelled it down a little. Replacing his glasses with the contacts was an awkward task, which left him blinking and watery eyed for a few seconds afterwards. Next the concealer was carefully applied over his scar and, finally, he dressed in the jeans and shirt he'd acquired.

"Alright, come out now, and stand beside me," he ordered his thrall.

The man emerged from the toilet cubicle properly dressed. Overall, he looked much more respectable than when they'd first met. Harry stared into the mirror over the sink, inspecting the site of the pair of them side-by-side. They both had a naturally pale skin tone, though Harry lacked the very faint freckles over the nose. Their features were vaguely similar, such as the shape of their jaw and lips. Harry's hair was now a strawberry-blonde like his thrall's, perhaps a shade or two darker, but not too different. Clarke wore his longish, at about chin length, and brushed back and behind his ears. The gell gave Harry's shorter hair a similar style, as well as tamed its natural unruliness. As for their eyes, Harry was quite proud to see the contacts he'd picked were an almost exact match for the pale blue colour of his thrall's eyes.

Harry hummed and nodded. He smiled with satisfaction. Yes, it was perfect. They could easily pass as father and son now. And better still, since his changes used not an ounce of magic, no dispelling charm could give him away.

He took down the Muggle repelling charm, grabbed Clarke's arm, and Apparated away once more. Now that his disguise was complete, he could get some real work done.

..ooOOoo..

Six months later, Harry lounged in the corner of the living room of his new apartment. He was currently was disillusioned, watching Clarke talk amicably with a middle-aged woman sitting on the couch opposite him. The man was really quite charming when he tried, Harry reflected. It was probably why he'd been so successful in charming women and slipping them drugs, back in his free days. Harry tended to only give his thrall the basics of orders, instructing the man to fill in the gaps of behaviour in a way that was natural and didn't make him look like a zombie, as Imperius victims sometimes tended to do. At the moment, all Clarke had been told to do was conduct the meeting with the customer, ask about her problem, and convince her that he had the answer. He was doing astoundingly well. Had been in fact, from the moment Harry first set up the hypnotherapy cover.

Harry almost snorted in amusement at the mental reminder of his little business venture. There were, he had realised, so many lucrative career options available to the morally flexible wizard. Muggles proved fertile ground for money making, just begging to be taken advantage of. Hypnotherapy was one way of doing this. As far as the Muggle world knew, Shane Clarke was a hypnotherapist of significant skill, working out of his home. Muggles phoned up and made appointments to drop by, where Clarke would charm them and then Harry, secretly, cast a compulsion spell or two. The customers left, delighted at their 'miracle cure' for whatever bad habit or problem had ailed them, be it smoking, drinking, insomnia or anything else. Meanwhile, Clarke, or rather Harry, was left £50 richer for each appointment. After a slow start, they'd been getting about three customers a day, five days a week. If patronage remained steady, Harry predicted a yearly income in the vicinity of £39,000. And that was just counting the hypnotherapy profits.

There were a few other additional money-making schemes Harry had been pursuing, all equally morally questionable in nature. The most profitable was providing models for Muggle pornography. All it really took was a bit of Polyjuice acquired from Knockturn Alley, and Gidget sent out to track and steal hairs from Muggle celebrities. Harry fed the resulting potion to Clarke, then did just a touch of charms work to make sure the result was an uncanny likeness but no longer identical, as that might raise suspicions. The porn magazine editors and movie makers, needless to say, were all over themselves to hire the 'celebrity look-alike' for a job. Even with the cost of the Polyjuice taken into account, Harry had still made a sizeable amount of money in a short amount of time. Enough for a down-payment on an inner London apartment. He expected he'd have said apartment paid off within a year.

Polyjuice hadn't been his only dubious spending however. He'd also bought an aging potion, of questionable legality due to its permanent effect. Some of its more popular uses were by jealous would-be-lovers against the witch or wizard who'd been chosen over them, or by less than loving children to urge their elderly parents off a little faster so they could inherit sooner. Harry had bought enough to give himself only a few extra years. He would have gone further, but it was highly discouraged to use the potion to age a child through to adulthood. To do so resulted in unpleasant side-effects like stunted growth, unbalanced hormones, occasionally even impotence. Needless to say, he'd rather go through puberty again than suffer those consequences.

Apart from Polyjuice and aging potion, Harry had managed to track down a few shady records modifiers to make sure that he, as Jared Clarke, checked out in both the Muggle and wizarding worlds. He also had Shane Clark registered as a Squib, being of no mind to have to feign Muggle-born ignorance. Then there was Gidget of course.

Harry had come into possession of Gidget by chance during a trip to the Ministry with Clarke so he could acquire an elf. Gidget hadn't initially been among the choices offered by the House Elf Relocation Office. In fact, Gidget had been due for 'termination'. Its former master had been rather dark, accidentally killed in an Auror raid, and the servant had picked up a trick or two. Apparently Ministry personnel didn't take well to being Crucioed by a lowly house-elf that harboured bitterness against the Ministry. Harry had spoken to the elf, come to an agreement, and promptly Obliviated the ministry official into thinking the termination had been done. In exchange he'd gotten a devoted but clever servant free of charge, that didn't object to his darker inclinations

"—and when I snap my fingers, you will open your eyes," Clarke said, drawing Harry's attention back to the present. The woman was resting on the couch with eyes closed, Clarke hovering above her and speaking soothingly. "And on awakening, the urge to gamble will have fled your soul. You will be healed."

"Compello," Harry whispered, as Clarke snapped his fingers.

The woman's eyes opened, and went wide. She felt the effect of the compulsion immediately of course. Harry always made sure they were obvious during these little appointments. He left his thrall to see her out as she started babbling her tearful thanks. He exited the room, heading upstairs to give Gidget the details of the latest Muggle celebrity target for hair-snatching.

..ooOOoo..

"What the hell?"

Harry stared at the opened the letter that an owl had delivered to his bedroom window. He cursed himself for not having considered this when he'd decided to take his OWLs at the Ministry a few weeks back. But, well, it was an obscure rule and not one he'd ever had to give much thought to before. In his hands were both his exam results, and an invitation to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for his sixth year. He was officially on record now, not just under his alias of Jared Clarke, but also as a wizard of sufficient skill. Schooling in wizarding Britain was optional, but only to a point. It was expected, though not really enforced, that any child not attending Hogwarts was to be educated at home. However it was both expected, _and_ enforced, that any child who achieved decent OWLs had to study for their NEWTs at Hogwarts. After all, it wouldn't do for Britain to turn out a wizard of skill, and not be able to brag that it was due to the country's self-proclaimed 'premier ranking magical school of the world'. They even offered scholarships for such home-schooled students, to ensure there was no excuse not to attend.

Harry groaned and Gidget, as always sensitive to his moods, quietly added a sickening amount of honey to his breakfast, knowing how he craved sugar when frustrated or depressed. He glumly took another spoonful of breakfast, and gave a reluctant hum of approval which made Gidget, hovering unobtrusively and watching on, squeak and pride and hurry off to do more work elsewhere. Harry sighed again, looking down at the letter.

The last couple of years had been heavenly. He'd broken laws, ignored morals, swindled Muggles and made a boatload of cash. Once he'd properly trained Gidget up in compulsion charms and various other little bits of magic, he was able to turn most of his less-than-legal business endeavours over to the elf to deal with. Harry was then able lay back and relax, travel the world a bit, have some holidays in exotic places, and generally be a lazy sod. Completing his OWLs had been more of an impulsive lark than anything, and one that had now come back to bite him on the arse.

He spent the rest of breakfast, and then the day, and then the week, trying to think of a way out of his predicament without having to give up his current guise and start over from scratch. He was happy with his life as Jared Clarke. It was comfortable and all the hard work was already done. He didn't _want_ to start again. Unfortunately, he could think of no other way out.

"Fuck," he moaned. "I'm going to Hogwarts."

..ooOOoo..

On the evening of September the first Harry said goodbye to Gidget and gave Clarke, still his thrall after all these years, a few last-minute commands. He also restrengthened the Imperius just in case. That done, he Apparated to Hogsmeade Station. He'd disdained the ride on the Hogwarts Express. Bad enough he was being dragged back to school at his age, he wasn't going to spend a day pointlessly travelling by train, making small-talk with obnoxious children who would doubtless be brimming with annoying questions about the new student in their midst.

His timing was impeccable, as he barely had a minute to wait before the train pulled up at the station. Students poured out, and Harry ignored the questioning looks he received.

"First year, first years this way!" a loud voice boomed across the platform.

Harry turned to see Hagrid, the half-giant towering over the humans, carrying a bright lantern. He peeled off from the rest of the crowd and made his way over to where the youngest students were congregating.

"Ah, and you must be Mr Clarke then, I'd wager. Headmaster Dumbledore said you'd be sailing over with the little ones."

Harry just nodded in confirmation of Hagrid's words. Many of the first years turned to stare at him, but a few sharp looks had them hurriedly turning away.

The trip across the lake was, he had to admit, quite a sight. So much so that he honestly couldn't bring himself to feel put out at having been forced to tag along with the firsties, rather than take the carriages. McGonagall, when let them in, was as she ever was. Before too long Harry found himself standing in front of the great hall with the first years as the hat sung, subject to many a curious looks or speculative whispers from the crowd.

"Bagley, Alys!" McGonagall called for the first student.

Harry was a bit relieved when, only two students later, his own name was announced, or rather his alias. He'd been pessimistically expecting to be sorted once the first years were through, meaning he'd have to stay up front and on display all the while. Not to mention the feast would start just after he'd joined his house and Dumbledore had said a few words, allowing the masses to immediately descend on him with prying questions. At least this way, he thought as he sat on the stool, he'd get a brief reprieve before that. Hopefully he could make his attitude of not wanting to be questioned clear, non-verbally, by the time the sorting finished. The sorting hat was lowered onto his head.

"Hmm, interesting," it muttered.

Harry was not alarmed. His Occlumency, a skill he had given long months of sweat, blood and tears to finally master, was more than adequate to keep even the Hogwarts sorting hat from seeing anything incriminating unless Harry let it. Harry wondered what the hat would say about him. He knew he'd changed since he was last sorted, but honestly didn't know where he belonged.

"Well?" he asked.

The hat merely gave a few thoughtful grumbles and then, "Slytherin!" it shouted.

Blinking, not sure whether to be surprised or not, Harry handed the hat over to McGonagall and went to join the Slytherin table. Surreally, they were clapping a polite welcome at his inclusion into their house. It almost made him snicker. But then, he supposed they didn't realise it was Harry Potter, defeater of the Dark Lord and supposed icon of Light, joining their numbers. Or rather, the _missing_ icon of the light. At that that he gave a small smirk, turning coolly away from the interested looks of his tablemates in favour of feigning attention to the sorting. As far as the wizarding world knew, Harry Potter had gone missing four and a half years ago, and hadn't been seen since. It had caused quite the kerfuffle when news came out, due to the boy-who-lived not turning up for Hogwarts in nineteen ninety-one. Harry had watched the media's lambasting of Dumbledore with gleeful amusement.

..ooOOoo..

Apparently first year Slytherins were treated to a meet-and-greet by Snape their first evening of Hogwarts, before being sent off to bed, and Harry was included. Said meeting consisted mostly of threats to behave and excel, or else they would suffer dire but unspecified consequences; a rather less than comforting detailing about how, as Slytherins, they were now considered untrustworthy by the other houses, as well as prime targets for harassment; a somewhat more inspiring talk about how Slytherins stuck together, and they were to always support, and could always count on support from, their housemates when in confrontation with other houses; plus, to round it all out, there was some mention of how Slytherins were the crème de la crème of the school, while the Gryffindors were nothing but reckless bullies, Hufflepuffs trusting fools without an ounce of backbone, and Ravenclaws lived so much in books as to be disconnected from reality.

"Hey," one of his three roommates greeted him as he entered his new dorm. The boy was dark haired and eyed and moderately handsome. "I'm Adrian. Adrian Pucey."

"Darius Berrow," the second muttered, tall and aristocratic featured with dark blonde hair, barely looking up at Harry as he pulled on his pyjamas before striding out of the room.

"Don't mind him, it was nothing you did," Pucey reassured him, as Harry stared after the disappearing figure. "He's gone to spend the night with Tabitha. They've been together a year or so, and he's so disgustingly in love he can't bear to be away from her. It's a bit embarrassing really."

"Oh," was all Harry said. Then, curious, he asked, "Won't the professors notice a boy going into the girl's dorms?"

Pucey shook his head. "I know the other houses have precautions against that kind of thing. Gryffindor's supposed to turn the stairs into a slide or something if a wizard tries entering the witch's tower, and in Hufflepuff they've got a loud alarm. Ravenclaw has a targeted disillusionment spell of some sort, which keeps male students from being able to see the girl's dorm entrance. As for us—"

"Salazar Slytherin wasn't such a prude as the rest of them," interrupted the rough voice of Harry's third dorm mate, a hulking figure with short shaved hair, who had been observing the interactions silently. "You're name's Clarke."

"Jared Clarke," Harry confirmed, wondering why the other boy was staring at him so suspiciously.

"Of the wizarding Clarke's? Or a _Muggle_ branch?" he asked, stressing the word 'Muggle' with a certain disgust. "What's your blood status?"

Harry understood now the reason for the suspicion. "Depends," he said, not hedging so much as being honest. Well, honest according to his false backstory. "My father is technically from a wizarding branch, but he's a Squib. All his ancestors were pure though, as were my mothers." He shrugged, as if uncaring, though discretely he watched the other Slytherin from the corner of his eye to see if he'd be a problem. "All my grandparents were magical, which is the definition of a pure-blood. But with my father? Well, different people have different opinions."

The boy stared at him for a long moment, before huffing and turning away. Harry detected no sign of emerging hatred or danger from the other, just a mild sort of distaste and a superior dismissal, and internally relaxed.

"That was Craig Warrington, by the way, since he didn't bother to introduce himself," Pucey informed him, after the boy in question had gotten into bed and shut his curtains.

There seemed an undercurrent of bitterness in Pucey's voice that Harry didn't understand, but he didn't ask, feeling far too tired. Instead he just nodded and said goodnight to the oddly friendly Slytherin boy and got into his own bed. He had a moment of surprise as, when he shut the curtains, there was abruptly a perfect cessation of noise. Silencing charm on the curtains, he guessed. A few waves of his wand also confirmed the presence of a few basic protection and alert spells. How very Slytherin, he thought to himself, that the beds came standard with that sort of thing. Though, he had to admit it gave his paranoid soul a slight feeling of safety to have them there. With that thought, he raised his wand again and cast a few extra spells of his own, before shuffling down and going to sleep.

..ooOOoo..

The next morning Harry ended up walking down to breakfast with Pucey, or Adrian as the other insisted he call him. The boy was really, genuinely friendly. Harry supposed it was ridiculous to be surprised by that, like he was holding onto old prejudices and stereotypes or something. Wasn't he himself now a Slytherin, after all? Then again, knowing himself as well as he did, with his shaky morals and dark inclinations and more, Harry knew he didn't exactly add much to the argument that decent Slytherins could exist.

They were joined, shortly after starting in on breakfast, by two girls. Fellow sixth years, Adrian informed him.

"Hello," greeted a sloe-eyed and somewhat dumpy girl in a quiet voice. "I'm Manami Ichijoh. This is Amy Frome," she added shyly, pointing towards her friend. "She's not much of a morning person."

Harry found his gaze lingering on the other girl. Frome was distractingly beautiful: petite, with ivory skin, golden blonde curls, and crystalline blue eyes set in a delicate face. She looked almost like a china doll, so perfectly formed she was. Even her tiredness was attractive. The way she blinked at the table as if not quite aware yet was endearing cute. Her perfect rosebud lips parted and she spoke.

"Where's the fucking coffee?" she cursed in a sweet voice.

Harry blinked in shock, taken aback. He looked from the adorably pouting Frome, to the embarrassed-looking Ichijoh hurriedly pouring her friend a black coffee, which she proceeded to practically inhale, and then at Adrian who looked understanding and amused.

"Yeah, I wouldn't judge that book by its cover," he warned, and Harry nodded agreement. "This is Jared Clarke by the way," he told the girls.

"Of the wizarding Clarkes," Harry added a bit dryly, remembering last night's confrontation.

"Met that prick Warrington, did you?" a more clear-headed Frome asked, reaching for the coffee pot herself this time to refill her emptied mug. Harry nodded. "That cocksucker's an arrogant sod. Barely looks as me just because I'm a half-blood."

Harry tried not to look as jarred as he felt at the continued casual profanity from the beautiful, innocent-looking witch. Adrian, beside him, must have noticed though as he snickered. Ichijoh was blushing.

"Um, yeah. I think he's decided I'm passable, but barely, since I'm from pure lines on both sides except that my father's a Squib."

"Sounds just like that wanker," Frome said, with a delicate sniff, and then proceeded to down her second mug and refill once more, finally looking near to properly awake. "So, where the hell did you come from anyway?"

"Home-schooled," Harry provided, beginning to grow accustomed to her manner, or at least enough not to gawp anymore. "Made the mistake of taking the OWLs, and doing decently at them."

"And the fucking Ministry promptly shanghaied you into this nuthouse, I take it?"

"Pretty much."

..ooOOoo..

Harry didn't meet the last Slytherin in his year group till he was waiting outside the classroom for first lesson, along with the other sixth years who'd signed up for Arithmancy. Adrian and Frome had headed off to Ancient Runes instead, so he was stuck with Ichijoh, who seemed too shy to speak to him. Ichijoh squeaking and flushing bright red before hastily looking away had Harry turning his attention to the end of the corridor. Several other students snickered or rolled their eyes as Berrow stumbled towards them, progress made somewhat clumsy because he was engaged in a rather passionate lip lock with a witch as he walked.

"Berrow, Bainbridge," a sharp voice called. Harry spun to see that the classroom door had opened and Professor Vector was standing there, glaring. "Break it up before I hose the pair of you down. Five points from Slytherin for that horrifically inappropriate display. Everyone, inside now, books out and ready to take notes. Berrow and Bainbridge, opposite sides of the room."

"But professor!" Berrow wailed, looking genuinely distraught at the idea of being separated from his girlfriend.

Bainbridge, plastered against him, didn't look quite so much distraught as annoyed. Her lips were bruised red, her long dark hair mussed. She looked seductively dishevelled as she sneered at Vector.

"Now!" Vector snapped. "Before I make it ten points. _Each_."

The pair hurried to obey. Harry took a seat by Adrian, who had Berrow on his other side, staring mournfully across the room at a sulking Bainbridge. Tabitha Bainbridge, to be precise, or so Harry presumed given Adrian's mention of Berrow's girlfriend's name last night.

"Welcome to sixth year Arithmancy," Vector said once everyone was seated. "If you're here, you've excelled in your OWLs, at the very least, and I will be expecting a high standard of achievement from you all. As such, we'll be starting the year off with a test."

Ignoring the groans, except to deal out sharp looks that had the students in question hastily biting their tongues, Vector began handing out the test parchments. Harry had never had her as a professor during his past life, having not studied Arithmancy till after Hogwarts. He decided then and there that she would certainly live up to her strict reputation. She was, he felt, on the level of Snape and McGonagall in giving out a 'not to be messed with' vibe.

..ooOOoo..

Adrian was decent company, friendly and easy-going, if a bit too _decent_, something Harry never thought to find as a fault in a Slytherin. He was also interested in Quidditch, generally up for a chat about the latest games, but not obsessive about it. He'd in fact been on the Quidditch team until the year before, when Marcus Flint rearranged the line-up. As Adrian unhappily put it, Flint had 'swapped out any skilled players in favour of the biggest most violent ones he could find'. It explained the bitterness he'd detected in Adrian that first night. Apparently Warrington had taken over his spot on the team.

Warrington pretty much ignored him. Ichijoh continued to be quiet and barely speak to anyone at all, but Harry didn't mind that, because to be honest she seemed a bit boring. Frome remained startlingly foul-mouthed, though he had quickly grown inured to the shock of that, in favour of ironic amusement. Still, all that aside, his first few days at Hogwarts were almost exactly as bad as Harry had expected. Classes were boring as sin, not to mention simple in the extreme. The teachers were thoroughly impressed by him, but Harry wasn't moved by their praises, since they didn't realise he was a great deal more experienced in magic than the sixteen year old he pretended to be.

That all changed at the end of the first week. He was sitting in the common room finishing off his homework when the entrance opened. He payed no attention at first until a hush spread across the room. He looked up and around and saw everyone staring at a figure at the top of the room. The figure was clothed in a dark green velvet cloak, hooded and disguising their figure.

"The first years?" the figure asked, so blatantly androgynous in tone that Harry knew a spell must be in effect to disguise the voice.

Immediately, at the question, the two seventh year prefects shot to their feet looking attentive. The behaviour surprised Harry. Typical Slytherin prefect behaviour seemed to consist of superiority and ordering the other students around, and the higher up the grade of the prefect, the more superior they acted. He could only imagine how overbearing a Slytherin head student would be. And yet there was Scarlett Lympsham hurriedly counting the first years, and Lucian Bole briskly ordering them front and centre. Both then turned to look at the mysterious figure with attentive, respectful looks.

"All accounted for," Lympsham said.

"Shall we demand the Oaths?" Bole asked.

"What the—" Harry began in an undertone.

"Hush," Adrian whispered from beside him, gripping his arm tightly and giving him a cautioning looking.

"Yes, go ahead," the figure said. "But don't forget the new sixth-year."

Bode then rounded on the Harry, and gestured him to come forward and join the line of first years. Harry just raised an eyebrow, not about to move until he knew what was going on. He didn't like the sound of oaths. Among wizards, they weren't something to be treated lightly, and were in fact magically biding. But as he sat, the rest of the house, almost all of them, began whispering ominously. Beside him, even Adrian hissed, "Move Jared!" Frowning, Harry considered the situation before deciding it was better to go along than risk turning his entire house against him over… well, over whatever the hell was going on. Besides, he had a trick up his sleeve that countered most of the risk here. Decided, he stood and stepped forward and the room seemed to relax some. He noted the cloaked figure had followed his actions intently.

"Now," Bode said, "anyone not know what an Oath is? Good. You will now swear on your magic not to reveal the secrets of our guest."

"What?" one first year blurted out.

"Why?" another dared to ask.

"You are a Slytherin," Lympsham said, voice thick with zeal, "and as such you owe this person your allegiance. You will vow, or you will henceforth be considered outsiders within the house," she promised in a threatening tone, which had the first years looking meek and afraid.

"Now, one at a time, you will swear," Bode said.

Harry watched him work down the line, taking oath from each of the children, until he finally came to Harry who was last. Harry stared for a moment, before opening his mouth to speak.

"I, Jared Clarke, do swear on my magic, to never reveal the secrets of this guest."

As he finished speaking he consciously flexed his magic so as to send a pulse through the air. What none in the room but he knew was that since Jared Clarke wasn't his true name, the oath hadn't been binding. The pulse of magic though, was quite effective in feigning the effects of the sealing of a magical oath.

With the final oath supposedly taken, the figure stepped forward and pulled back their hood.

Harry stared in surprise.

..ooOOoo..

"So… Lady Serpe?"

It was later that evening in the dorm, after their guest, who had held court over the house, had left. Berrow was off with Bainbridge as usual, undoubtedly up to various licentious activities. Warrington was out as well. He too had a late night rendezvous, with some Ravenclaw witch, though Harry had no idea who would be interested in the boy. He wasn't hideous but he wasn't particularly attractive either, and he certainly wasn't pleasant company either. Either way it suited Harry just fine, since it meant he could question Adrian about Slytherin house's 'guest' in privacy.

"She's something isn't she?" Adrian asked somewhat admiringly.

"Yeah, something. The thing is though, I was pretty sure her name was—"

"Oh, right, you've seen her around school then. Well, that's the name she was born with, but it's not really _hers_, you know. Officially it is, but she's really a Serpe, or may as well be. It's all we call her here in Slytherin house. Of course, the Lady has never really explained the whole story to any except her closest and most trusted, but rumours do spread. Most people accept the theory that her mother, well…" Adrian paused, looking around as if afraid he'd be overheard. "She had an affair with the last wizard of the Serpe family. They were Italian but branched off from the Slytherin line centuries back. As in, they were descendants of _the_ Salazar Slytherin. It's how she got the gift of Parseltongue."

"I see," Harry said slowly, mind whirring. He had a more than nagging feeling that the whole story was utter bollocks, but said nothing. Instead he decided to try verifying his suspicion by asking, "When did she first reveal herself to you all?"

"It was at the end of the school year before last. It was a bit of a shock really. You know Malfoy, the white-blonde kid in fourth year who mostly keeps to himself? He pretty much shot his mouth off at her because of her mother's family." Adrian paused, looking uncomfortable. "Well, I don't know what she said or did to him, no one does, but he was really scared of her after that and kept his head down from then on. Not that's she's one of those 'lead with fear' types or anything," Adrian hurried to reassure Harry as he frowned. "The Serpes were known as more personable and merciful than the usual Slytherin descendants. The Lady's the same. She can scary be when she needs to, but mostly she leads with… grace."

"With grace?" Harry's eyes narrowed. "Adrian," he asked with a teasing tone, "do I detect a crush?"

"What? No, of course not," Adrian replied, looking genuinely shocked. He frowned then, looking nervous. "I, ah, I thought you would have realised by now, or someone would have said something to you about it. I'm—I mean I don't—" He huffed. "Look Jared, I prefer wizards."

"Oh."

"Is that alright? I mean, obviously it's alright. I don't let anyone tell me otherwise. But I know some guys get uncomfortable with it. Mostly those with Muggle influence. And I know you live with your father in the Muggle world because of his lack of magic."

"Adrian." Harry held up a hand to halt the flow of nervous babble. "It's fine. Really. I swing both ways myself."

"Oh," Adrian said a bit dumbly, then smiled in relief. "Oh good. Then it'd be a bit strange if it bothered you, wouldn't it?"

"Hypocritical," he agreed. "So if not a crush…?"

"She's smart, powerful, refined, descended of Salazar Slytherin, a natural leader, utterly charismatic. What's not to admire?"

"I see."

Yes, he saw alright. Remembering the events of the original timeline, it didn't take a genius to make a guess at what had happened, that could result in Ginny Weasley emerging at the end of her first year of Hogwarts as the heir of Slytherin, the 'Lady Ginevra Serpe'.

..ooOOoo..

Before Harry had much of a chance to dwell on the situation with Ginny Weasley and all it implications, a second event occurred to shake up things at Hogwarts.

"—hosting students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang," Harry tuned in to hear Dumbledore announcing over dinner. "They will be coming here, to Hogwarts, to participate in a newly established interschool competition: the Great Tourney. There will be a range of competitions and prizes, events and displays, over the rest of the school year. It is the goal of this event to encourage international exchange and understanding. I'm sure you will all make our guests most welcome."

As excited chatter swept across the hall, Harry was feeling confused. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten before now, but it was actually the year that, in his original timeline, the Triwizard Tournament came to Hogwarts. Clearly this time around that wouldn't happen, but rather this 'Great Tourney' would be occurring instead. He knew the course of events had changed due to his actions, but he wasn't sure how this change had come about.

"Sounds like it might be a bit of fun, don't you think?" Adrian asked him.

Harry considered for a moment before nodding. Yes, it very well might be. Certainly it would make his time back at Hogwarts more interesting. He turned to Adrian and the other sixth years who were discussing what sort of events and prizes might be involved, and joined in the conversation with some ideas of his own.

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**ABOUT THIS BUNNY**: This is my latest in a long, _long_ line of stories I started without much direction. Basically I wanted a dark!Harry redo where he goes back not for vengeance or to set things right, but just to have a clean slate. He intends to just live life, but then gets accidentally dragged back to Hogwarts and drama ensues. If you haven't guessed, Ginny was taken over by the Riddle diary. This was to be a Harry/Riddle(in Ginny body) pairing. May continue, may not.

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**Reviews make me happy (hint, hint).**


	2. 02: Girl? Who Lived

**Posted**: 22 April, 2012

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything in this story that is recognisable from the Harry Potter books, movies, etc. Everything else however (eg. story plot, original characters, etc.) stems from my own imagination and belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended and I am not profiting financially from this story in any way.

**Summary**: Odds and ends, and bits and bobs. False starts and story ideas that fizzled out. Mostly Harry Potter, some other fandoms too.

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**02: Girl? Who Lived**

He came awake slowly, sluggishly, and blinked up at a shadowy, vaulted ceiling. A glance around showed a dank stone chamber, serpent statues and a huge bust of a monkey-like man. More importantly, he saw a boy kneeling at his side, messy dark head bowed over an ink-stained book with a fang embedded in it. A fading scream echoed through the room and he knew what had just happened: the Riddle shade had been vanquished.

Sitting up drew the boy's attention, and the green eyes of Harry Potter fixed on him, wide and weary and relieved.

"Ginny!" Harry cried, hurrying towards him… or rather her. "Thank god you're awake."

"He's gone then. I can feel it."

He- she, it was she now- she was rather calm in her tone and manner, unwilling to pretend tears and worry. No, hysterics at this point, whilst understandable if things were as they seemed, would only encourage others to become protective and smothering and treating him- _her_ as a fragile and traumatised little girl. Best start as she intended to go on.

And so, for this reason, she rose determinedly to her feet and reached a hand down to help Harry, who had collapsed at her side, to stand up. She cast a worried look over his form, a look not entirely feigned for her purpose; he really did look to have been through a trying ordeal.

"Come on Harry, let's get out of here. You need to see Madam Pomfrey."

"Ginny?" Harry seemed a bit bewildered by her take-charge attitude as she pulled one of his arms across her shoulders to help support him, leading them toward the exit. "Are you okay?"

"Me? I'm not the one who just fought Voldemort and his gigantic bloody basilisk," she said rather bluntly. "Not to mention, judging by the hole in your robes, and if what I thought I heard while half-out of it was true, you were bitten by the thing. They're lethal you know."

"Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix, healed it for me."

"Still should be checked out."

They reached the closed exit, a round iron door with serpentine designs. Harry hesitated, looking towards her.

"I, ah- I can open it but I have to speak Parseltongue," he said tentatively, glancing her way to judge her reaction.

"Wait, let me try," she said, much to his surprise. "I spent most of the year being possessed by Tom, who had to speak the passwords through my body," she explained. "I want to see if the skill rubbed off." Then she turned to door and hissed, "_Open_!"

Giving a small, modest smile to Harry's shocked expression, she urged them on once more.

Not too much later, she, Harry, Ron and Lockhart stumbled into Dumbledore's office.

"Ginny!" Molly- her mother, remember to call her mum- her mum cried, rushing forward to gather her into a hug. "Oh, my baby girl, you're alive!"

And then Arthur- her dad, was joining in the embrace too, reaching out to tug Ron forward too, looking over his son's injuries. And as for Harry? Well, Harry just stood there, looking rather alone. She felt a stab of pity for the boy, especially as Dumbledore just twinkled away in what she had the experience to realise was a sort of proprietary approval. She had to resist the urge to sneer in disgust at the headmaster.

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**ABOUT THIS BUNNY**: Keeping in mind that the word file this and several other ideas are in was created years ago, and this was at the top and thus the oldest, I don't really recall where this was supposed to go, and didn't make any notes. Obviously it's a Harry redo-fic with a twist, where he goes back to end up not in his own body, but rather in Ginny's. Very short, obviously, and not much plot. But, rereading this helped inspire the bunny of chapter one, with the while_Tom_ in Ginny's body thing.

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**Reviews make me happy (hint, hint).**


	3. 03: Emotionally Distanced

**Posted**: 23 April, 2012

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything in this story that is recognisable from the Harry Potter books, movies, etc. Everything else however (eg. story plot, original characters, etc.) stems from my own imagination and belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended and I am not profiting financially from this story in any way.

**Summary**: Odds and ends, and bits and bobs. False starts and story ideas that fizzled out. Mostly Harry Potter, some other fandoms too.

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**03: Emotionally Distanced**

"Harry, are you absolutely sure about this?" Hermione's voice was, as always these days, weak and wavering. "I- I mean it's just so _Dark_."

"I know Hermione, and I hate that as much as you do," Harry lied, supressing as best he could the pang of guilt. "But if I'm going to do this, I need to be able to go back with an open mind."

"But to cut away all your emotional ties… Harry it just seems so _wrong_. I- I don't want to imagine what it will be like. You'll look at me and you won't even see a friend anymore," she said a bit tearfully. "You're all I've got left. I don't want you to stop caring about me."

"Aw, Hermione." He pulled her into an awkward hug, careful not to jar the injuries that made her weak, and even now slowly killed her. "It won't make me hate you or anything negative. Think of it as… a clean slate. And you know that when I meet you again, I'll be looking to restart our friendship," he added falsely, and the guilt he had to push aside at that lie was even greater. "But this is too important to not do. You said it yourself: the timeline will change so I can't judge everyone by how they turned out this time. I can't automatically assume that everyone I dislike now will be an enemy still, like my instincts will try to do. And you know with- with Ginny," he said in a strained voice and Hermione shook, "just how dangerous it can be to trust someone to the point of refusing to doubt them. It's all my fault really."

"Harry! No, it's-"

"It _was_. There were so many signs and clues. If I'd just been willing to consider even the _possibility_… well, you wouldn't be dying from her curses, and Ron would still be with us." Hermione sobbed, then winced as the movements set off pain from her curse-inflicted injuries. "Not to mention several others from the Order. This potion is too important Hermione, and you know it, to get squeamish just because it's a bit Dark."

Hermione nodded, conceding. Of course what she didn't know, what Harry chose to omit, was the fact that the Dark aspect didn't actually bother him one jot. If Hermione knew the truth of him, his forays into Dark Magic in his desperation to be better stronger and more effective in the war, and of his changing views on Light and Dark as a result, then she would be far more hesitant he was sure. As it was he could hardly wait to take the potion and be rid of the irrational attachment he held for the girl in his arms, and the guilt he felt at every reminder that he was deceiving her.

Harry wasn't like Voldemort, believing any attachments made you weak, but he'd come to realise that he had, when making emotional connection in his earlier years, been less than discriminating. Ron had been less than bright, narrow-minded, weak-willed and jealous, and had betrayed him more than once with his fickle loyalty. He felt unbelievably, horribly guilty for thinking badly of his late friend, despite that he was just being honest. The potion would strip that guilt away though, he was glad to know, and let him look at the situation from a purely objective standpoint.

It was similar to his friendship with Hermione. She was brilliant of course, and definitely an asset to him. It was her who'd directed him in brewing the potion he was to take, her own hands too weak and shaky these days to brew reliably herself. It was also her who developed the spell that would send him back. But she was also bossy, controlling, superior, nosy, revering of authority figures beyond even any loyalty to friends, and positively lacking any respect for privacy when, a) there was knowledge to be gained, or b) it concerned one of her friends, whom she seemed to think she had a right to know every detail about.

So, when Harry told her he had every intention of rebuilding their friendship, it was a blatant lie. Oh, he'd become acquainted with her again perhaps, since she was really too brilliant a mind to disregard, but she wouldn't be his best friend again. His intentions sent guilt stinging through him, especially when he thought of the months she had dedicated to set this plan in motion for him, working even through the pain of her cursed injuries, determined to help him. To help him change things and save the Light… the Light he no longer walked in.

His only consolation to all his conscience was the knowledge that when he took the potion his worries would all be eased. He wouldn't feel as though he was betraying friends anymore, just that he was doing the wisest thing in regards to people he knew but had no particular attachment to. And so it was with hidden eagerness that he downed the potion and let it carry him into unconsciousness, the effects spreading slowly through his mind.

Three days later, at the height of the new moon, Hermione plunged a dagger through her heart with shaky hands, and let her life-sacrifice power the ritual to send him back. She'd been increasingly uncomfortable and sad around him since the potion, though he tried his best to assuage her fears with false shows of reforming affection, and as such her last words before the ritual was started had been to ensure once more that he would indeed befriend her again his second time around. He smiled and promised, lying through his teeth all the while… and feeling not an iota of guilt.

A fading shriek echoed through room as a sharp pain throbbed on his brow, and the building shook from the force of the magical shock, causing plaster and pictures and such to tumble down. Harry felt weak, but that wasn't surprising given he'd just survived the Killing Curse, and also, he _was_ just an infant now. He felt the odd urge to start bawling at the overwhelming situation but held it back, determined not to give in to his immature body's lack of emotional control.

He wasn't sure how long it was but eventually he heard a rumbling of an engine and then, after some moments, a cry of despair from below followed by hurried footsteps on stairs. The figure of his godfather, youthful and healthy, burst through the open nursery door. He stepped past Voldemort's fallen robes and wand with little thought. Instead the man dove to check Lily, finding her dead, and then lunged toward the crib.

Harry had never seen such a perfect mixture of grief and joy on a face before, as when Sirius looked down and saw him looking up at him. But then, the man had just lost his best friend and surrogate brother, not to mention another friend and surrogate sister-in-law, only to find that his godson still lived. Cause for grief and cause for joy.

Shaky hands reached into the crib and picked Harry up, cradling him against his chest. The sensation was a bewildering reminder that he was in fact a babe at this point in time, no longer the full-grown man he remembered being. He looked down at the far-off seeming floor as Sirius carried him downstairs and out the house, the man trying to shield his eyes from the fallen figures of his parents. Not that it mattered, though Sirius knew not, because Harry held no particular emotional attachment to the late pair. Any sadness he felt was abstract, as if for a stranger, rather than personal.

When they emerged onto the front lawn they were greeted by Hagrid, proclaiming he would take Harry to the Dursleys where he'd be safe. Sirius wavered, clearly thinking that leaving Harry with the Muggles would suit at least temporarily till he could track down Pettigrew and avenge his friends. This, Harry knew, was the moment to strike and change things so he wouldn't be left with those disgusting Muggles. Sirius was emotionally off-balance enough not to notice any tampering, distraught and joyful and vengeful as he was all at once.

The wandless magic which Harry had come to be fairly proficient in was much harder this time, he soon discovered. He supposed that shouldn't be unexpected since his magic was yet as infantile as his body, only his mind having been returned from the future. Still though, he hadn't expected just how exhausting it would be. It was a little depressing really. He consoled himself with the reminder once more that he _had_ just survived a Killing Curse, so hopefully things would be better after rest and recuperation.

As it was he found himself falling unavoidably unconscious as he heard Sirius, on Harry's compulsion spell's prompting, start blabbering tearfully and near-hysterically about Peter Pettigrew having been the true Secret Keeper and Sirius the diversion, and how he couldn't possibly abandon Harry now when he needed Sirius most, because it wasn't safe with Pettigrew still on the loose and besides, he had promised James and Lily he'd look after Harry not abandon him with Muggles, especially not Petunia's family who hated Lily and all things magic, and besides how could Hagrid even suggest such a thing when clearly Harry was in need of immediate medical attention, and…

Harry awoke… well he wasn't sure how much later. He'd say at a day or so judging by his slight state of hunger, except he had a feeling that in his young form hunger might well set in sooner. How much sooner he didn't know, and so he couldn't really predict how long he'd been out for. What he could tell however, judging by the surrounds he found himself in, was that he was in St Mungo's, the wizarding hospital. Also, Sirius was with him, talking quietly. Noticing the topic of the talk, Harry kept his eyes closed and just listened, trying to gain as much information as possible before 'awakening'.

"…won't let you get sent off, I promise Harry," the man was saying. "Petunia's a bitter shrew and not fit to raise a magical child. Don't know what Dumbledore was thinking, but I won't go along with it, and nor will anyone else. I'm your godfather after all, so I have legal custody. Being a pureblood while Petunia's a Muggle doesn't hurt either, so far as the stuck-up wizarding courts are concerned. And can you believe the story he was trying to spread around about you? A baby defeating the most powerful Dark Lord in ages by reflecting his Killing Curse?" A scoff sounded.

"I know you're brilliant kiddo, but that's a bit ridiculous. Plus, at the same time Dumbledore was trying to convince me you needed to go to Petunia's lot because it was L-Lil-" Sirius stumbled over the name, sounding momentarily tearful, "your mum's sacrifice that saved you. Blood sacrifice, life-for-life, or something. Sounds like the sort of brilliant thing she'd figure out and do. Only, Dumbledore can hardly hail you defeater of a Dark Lord in one breath, and your mum as the true saviour in the next, can he?

"It's not only ridiculous, but letting that 'boy-who-lived' slogan the Prophet came up with go on would paint a huge target on you for any Death Eaters wanting revenge for their lost master. Don't know what Dumbledore was thinking with any of it. Maybe age is finally getting to him," Sirius said on a sigh. "Never mind though, because I had a stern talk with him about it, and then spoke to Moony who promised to spread the word. And look, this morning's front page of the Prophet says 'Mistaken Account: The _True_ Heroine, Lily Potter, She-Who-Saved-Us'. That's what everyone's calling her now, she-who-saved-us. And everyone seems to agree that the whole 'baby defeated him' idea was silly."

Silent and eyes still closed, Harry suppressed a grin. He'd been a bit worried that, weak as he was, the second compulsion he cast on Sirius wouldn't hold for long enough to be enacted. That is to say, the compulsion to dispel the boy-who-lived mythos before it could take root among the wizarding public. It seemed his fears were unfounded though, and he thought it much more fitting that Lily Potter got the glory. For one, it really was her efforts that cast Voldemort out, and for two, it meant he wouldn't have to put up with the cursed celebrity of his former life.

"So that's good at least," Sirius continued. "What else? The Healers said I should keep talking to you, even if you're out of it. That it would help you to hear a familiar, friendly voice. I just wish you'd wake up Harry, so I could know you're alright. The healers have healed all your cuts and bruises, except that curse scar which doesn't want to heal. They wanted to do tests you know, what with it being from surviving the Killing Curse and all, but from the looks in their eyes I was afraid it'd end up more like experimentation, so I told them to sod off."

Sirius rambled on a bit more then, about several topics. When it became clear nothing else of interest was going to be said Harry blinked opened his eyes.

"Siwius?" he said, his baby mouth and vocal cords distorting the name.

"Harry!" Sirius cried, snapping his attention to him, leaning over the crib to touch him gently. "Kiddo," he choked out, misty-eyed, "you're finally awake. Thank Merlin. Hold on while I get the Mediwizards. _Sirius will be back soon_," he promised, in a rather condescending talking-to-a-baby tone which made Harry's nose wrinkle, then disappeared.

Harry was released from hospital the next day and Sirius promptly whisked him away to his little flat cum bachelor pad over a small store down the quieter end of Diagon Alley. It didn't take long for Sirius to realise that it really was too small for a man and a young child, and so three months in they moved to a larger, but still modestly-sized rented cottage outside of Hogsmeade.

Harry 'developed' at an astonishing rate. His vocabulary at fifteen months, that is to say that fateful Halloween night, had consisted solely of seven words: 'Mama,' 'Dada', 'Siwee' for Sirius, 'Weema' for Remus, 'Pee' for Peter which had once amused everyone, 'yeh' for yes, and 'nuh' for no. That was decently impressive, but far more stunning was that by the time he reached eighteen months Harry could be heard speaking the most simple of sentences, then by his second birthday his vocabulary had expanded and his sentences grown longer, and by the time he turned three Harry spoke quite as well as any adult. He'd also 'learned' to read quite comprehensively. Remus was impressed, Sirius proud, and every other adult who encountered him found his seeming maturity endearing and enchanting.

It wasn't just his language skills that Harry had been purposefully revealing at an accelerated rate. Sirius had been shocked and beyond proud at the extent, frequency and control of Harry's 'accidental' magic. Harry had decided after some consideration that whilst keeping his magical abilities secret would be an advantage, it would be too difficult to hide his practicing from Sirius. And he certainly wasn't going to stop, not when he knew that the more magic a child performed at a young age, before they reached magical maturity, the stronger their magic would grow to be. Naturally, few did much more than the occasional accidental magic before Hogwarts. Some exceptions included Voldemort and Dumbledore who learned to harness accidental magic as small children, and they'd grown to be some of the most powerful wizards known. No, Harry certainly wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to develop a greater magical core this time around.

On the personal interactions side of things, Dumbledore had made a habit at first of dropping by to 'chat'. The chats usually involved far too much interest in Harry on the old man's behalf, and constants suggestions that he spend time at the Dursleys. Eventually Sirius got so annoyed by the persistence that he told Dumbledore to stop calling on them. Admittedly, he was helped along on that decision by some subtle compulsion spells by Harry, but it hadn't taken much effort given that Sirius had always been somewhat rebellious in the face of authority, and the fact that since the deaths of James and Lily he was particularly protective of Harry.

Living with Sirius, growing up with him, was a whole other experience to what Harry remembered of life with the Dursleys. So much better. All the same he suspected that if he'd actually gotten to live with the man last time around as hoped, when they'd met in his third year, he would have enjoyed it even more. It was a combination of things really that tempered his happiness. For one, while he looked like and sometimes had to deal with the emotional control of a child, Harry was in mind an adult, and quite beyond yearning for a parental figure. For another, the attachment he'd quite quickly formed to Sirius in that other life had been stripped like all his other emotional connections.

Certainly a new fondness had grown, but Harry had made a conscious decision not to grow too attached this time around. As his guardian Sirius had a great deal of say about Harry's life, and Harry did not want to have to deal with the guilt he'd feel at manipulating or lying to a loved one whenever he had to subtly coerce the man into doing as he wished. His old self, he knew, would have baulked or at least felt terribly about using compulsions on his godfather. He would also have felt some urge to try and denounce the Dark leanings he'd acquired, so as not to disappoint the man. And so Harry kept his affections distant.

When Harry was four, he decided that much like magic in general, if he wished to practice Dark magic consistently then Sirius was bound to eventually find out. While certain Dark spells, potions and rituals were illegal, Dark magic and being Dark wizard was not, though the more popular pro-Light views frowned on it. It would not be an unforgivable thing for Harry to declare himself a Dark wizard. Or it shouldn't be. But then, Sirius had very strong views about that sort of thing. That was likely because, Harry felt, Sirius had mentally associated his horrible family troubles with Dark Magic, as if the one was caused by the other. For this reason, when Harry decided to reveal his leanings at age four, he did so with liberal use of compulsion magics, and approached it in a very careful and particular manner designed to urge his godfather's acceptance.

"Sirius?" Harry ventured with intentional timidity on the evening of his birthday, when it approached time for bed. "Can I, um, talk to you about something?"

"Sure kiddo, come sit with me," Sirius immediately replied, looping an arm around Harry in a comforting way when he sat, trying to ease the clear worry. "What's up?"

"It's about- you know how you've told me some about your family and how they hated you were in Gryffindor, because lots of Gryffindors were Light wizards, and you told them you wanted to be one too, and they were all Dark and wanted you to be as well?" Harry blurted out in one long ramble.

"Yeah…?" Sirius stretched out the word.

"Would-" Harry fidgeted a bit and purposefully let tears come, then turned misty eyes up to Sirius, biting his lower lip. "Would you be mad if I- if I didn't want to be Light?" Sirius drew in a sharp breath, looking shocked. Harry hurriedly spoke. "I know parents and stuff must want their kids to be the same as them, like yours did, and they're sometimes not happy when they're not, like yours were, but I- I'm not- I don't think Light is right for me Sirius. But I don't want you to hate me, or disown me like they did to you. But I just, I'm more comfortable with the Dark magic Sirius. Please don't hate me?" he finished on an artfully stifled sob.

Perfectly done, Harry thought smugly some time later, lying in bed. A bit blatant perhaps, the way he correlated his situation to Sirius's own, and pleaded for the man not to do as his own hated family had done. Of course Sirius wouldn't; he strove to be nothing like the Blacks, if only just to be contrary. Still, as he said, a bit blatant. But sometimes you needed to be obvious about things for Sirius to catch, because since subtlety wasn't really the man's thing. And the compulsion spells had smoothed it all over so he wouldn't get suspicious. Not that he would; Harry was his pride and joy, his brilliant and clever godson, and could do no wrong.

Yes, perfectly done. There had been some explaining and considering on both sides, and a few weak attempts by Sirius to convince Harry that perhaps he was just confused, but in the end the man had accepted it, accepted that his godson was a Dark wizard, if reluctantly and far less than pleased about it. Harry on the other hand, was quite satisfied.

When Harry was five, Sirius's mother Walburga Black died of natural causes. To Harry the man seemed torn between a darkly satisfied joy, and a wistful regret when the news reached them. Walburga's husband and Sirius's father Orion Black had died some six years previous, and so the estate went to the only surviving heir: Sirius. Included in the estate was Grimmauld Place.

It took much nagging but eventually Sirius agreed to take Harry for a visit there. The first time Harry stepped foot in the house in the new timeline was nothing like it had been in the old one. There was nothing uncomfortable and unnerving about the place, as he remembered it, aside from the rather tackily gothic decor. Instead, as the Dark magic that infused the place washed over him, Harry had let out a sigh of contentment and smiled. Well, after they'd managed to close and silence the curtains of Walburga's screaming portrait that is. Sirius had given him an odd look at his contented reaction.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Nothing, just- you actually like it here, don't you?"

"Oh come on Sirius, don't tell me you don't." Then, when Sirius gave him a sceptical look, he continued. "Okay, so maybe you don't like the memories associated with this place, but ignore that and just feel the magic. It's just so-"

"Dark," Sirius said grumpily, still rather unhappy a year later with Harry's choice, though he no longer argued about it.

"You can lie to everyone else, and even yourself most of the time, but _I'm_ not stupid Sirius. Any Dark wizard would find comfort in this place."

"I'm not a Dark wizard!"

"You're a Black and so from a long line of Dark wizards, you were raised in this place where the very air is heavy with Darkness, and you almost certainly would have been trained in Dark magic before Hogwarts at least. Like I said, I'm not stupid. There's no way your magic's inclined towards the Light with all that behind it."

"Closer to Dark Neutral," Sirius finally admitted shamefully, after a long moment of silence. "I've never been able to get it Lighter than that, not matter how much I try."

"There's nothing wrong with that," Harry insisted firmly. "It's weird though, you know. Not a one of you Marauders or Lily was really Light, and yet you all proclaimed it so loudly as if you were."

"What?" Sirius looked startled. "Of course they were. It was just me that was tainted." Harry promptly sent a snap of wandless magic at the man. "Ow! You've got to stop it with that head-smacking trick Harry."

"I will as soon as you stop denigrating the Dark," Harry said.

"Sorry," Sirius said with a pout.

Really, Harry reflected, it was like training an _actual_ dog sometimes, because Sirius seemed to respond surprisingly well to the occasional positive and negative reinforcements.

"And it _wouldn't_ have been just you," Harry insisted. "James was partially a Black too, you know through his mum, my grandma Dorea. Even with the long line of Potter Light wizards, and being raised in a Light home, the Black blood would have had an effect. A Light _Neutral_ at best, never pure Light. We all know about Pettigrew." He ignored the growl at the name's mention. "Voldemort was really anti-Light, and would never have marked anyone Lighter than Neutral. And Remus almost certainly has Dark in him."

"Remus? No way!"

"He's a werewolf Sirius," Harry said, giving him a 'you are being rather dim' look. "As in he has a Dark curse, transforms into a Dark creature once a month, and has that Dark creature's mind and magic hiding inside him still the rest of the time. There's no chance that doesn't affect him." Sirius, he saw, look rather shocked by the realisation. "And as for mum-"

"Oh, _come on_," Sirius rallied. "The others, yeah okay it makes some sense. But Lily was a Muggle-born. No Dark lineage, no being raised in the Dark, no Dark curse. And then a Gryffindor to boot!"

"Yeah, sure, she was pure Lightness," Harry scoffed. "And a purely Light witched managed a life-for-life blood sacrifice, a completely Dark ritual, on her first try, and with enough skill and power to reflect a Killing Curse." He gave a suddenly gaping Sirius a very sceptical look. "I mean, really?"

"I- but- I never considered- I just thought since she was so brilliant…" Sirius trailed off.

"I'm sure she was, but to manage that Dark a ritual with that much success, she can't have been completely Light. Dark Neutral at best I'd say. You were raised in the wizarding world Sirius, you _know_ how magical inclinations work, and their effects on the magic a person does."

"Yeah," Sirius admitted weakly.

"Right, so, keeping in mind that none of you all were really Light, and your most beloved and wonderful godson," he threw the man a cheeky grin, "is most adamantly Dark and not ashamed to admit it, let me ask you a question. Is it really the Darkness of this place you don't like? Or is it the reminders of bad memories?"

Sirius was silent, looking around the gloomy entrance hall with lips pressed thin and a frown on his face. After a moment he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and seemed to relax. He opened his eyes again, looking torn.

"I guess… the memories," he admitted reluctantly. "The magic isn't… so bad I suppose."

"Great, then you'll like my plan!"

"Plan?"

It took a few weeks of arguing before Sirius agreed to Harry's plan of moving into Grimmauld Place. Even with compulsion spells, which Harry had grown quite fond of, he had to be very convincing. After all, one could only make compulsions so strong before they became obvious to the target. As it was Harry had had to make several key arguments before Sirius would concede.

Firstly he played on Sirius's devotion to him, by pointing out that as a fledgling Dark wizard, Grimmauld Place with its Dark magic was the ideal nurturing environment for him. Then he added a common sense argument, though such things rarely held sway with Sirius, about how pointless it was to pay rent for the cottage in Hogsmeade when Sirius owned a perfectly serviceable house that was sitting empty. He also pointed out that if it was the memories of the place that bothered the man so, perhaps renovating the place could help abolish the negative associations. And besides he added almost bribingly, wouldn't it be fun to tear his mother's home apart and change it into something less gloom-and-doom and more bright-and-happy?

It was, perhaps, a combination of 'for the benefit of your beloved godson' and 'to spite your not-so-dearly departed mother' that finally won Sirius over. They moved in and Sirius took to the renovation projects with a sort of demented glee that rather amused Harry. Sheer delight had shown on Sirius's face when Harry found a spell in the Black Library (which was a most delightful collection of Dark books) which could painfully obliterate a portrait's limited sentience, and then threatened Walburga's screaming portrait with it till it gave up the counter to the Permanent Sticking Charm that held it affixed to the entrance hall wall.

By Christmastime Grimmauld was transformed. Harry had had to reign in some of Sirius's more outrageous ideas, such as a completely red and gold theme, or permanent pranking enchantments, or a slide in place of the stairs, and other such things. Fortunately Remus, who visited often, had been willing to back Harry up in talking sense into his godfather on these points. Rather than its former appearance, which had been ominous, tacky and ostentatiously dark, the house was now quite tastefully done. Windows had been cleared and enlarged for plenty of light and air, heavy blackout curtains were stripped away, the gloomy colours had been traded out for more attractive shades, the decades of grime had been stripped back to reveal shining fixtures and gleaming wooden floors… and that was only to start with. Harry loved the changes and his new home.

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**ABOUT THIS BUNNY**: I wanted a redo story where Harry doesn't reconnect with his old friends, and has a sort of justifiable reason for feeling no emotional attachment or lingering loyalty to them. And then I wanted to incorporate the whole Harry raised by Sirius thing. Plus of course, dark!Harry is always a fun idea.

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**Reviews make me happy (hint, hint).**


	4. 04: Different Magics

**Posted**: 24 April, 2012

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything in this story that is recognisable from the Harry Potter books, movies, etc. Everything else however (eg. story plot, original characters, etc.) stems from my own imagination and belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended and I am not profiting financially from this story in any way.

**Summary**: Odds and ends, and bits and bobs. False starts and story ideas that fizzled out. Mostly Harry Potter, some other fandoms too.

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**04: Different Magics**

"Who are you?"

"That is not relevant."

Suspicious, Harry dared to reply, "I think it is."

"Do you?" Fortunately, she seemed more amused than anything. "Very well, you may call me… Tara," she pronounced the name slowly, experimentally, as though trying it out.

"Tara?" he asked, sceptically. "That's really your name?"

"It's as good a name as any," she said, with a firmness and power that had him instantly wary.

"Okay," he hastily said, deciding to accept and let the matter drop. He stared for a moment before deciding a different, perhaps even more relevant question, ought to be posed. "So why are you here, in my… dream? It feels sort of like a dream, and I remember going to bed so…"

"You have a destiny, to defeat Tom Marvolo Riddle," she said plainly. He started in surprise at the use of Voldemort's true name; not many knew it. "It was even prophesied, shortly before you were born."

"Prophesied? As in a prophecy?" He'd heard of such things; they were the only sort of divination Hermione, sceptic that she was, would consider giving even the smallest genuine belief. Tara nodded, so he asked, "What did it say?"

"It said that a child born at the end of July, from parents who had defied Riddle three times, would have the power to defeat him. There were two candidates, until Riddle confirmed you as the subject by marking you with that scar, which was another part of the prophecy. And it finished with saying that either of you must die by the hand of the other, for neither of you can live while the other survives."

"Neither can live while the other survives." Harry tried futilely to parse that out. "What does that mean?" Then he frowned, and asked almost bewilderedly, "And why do I even believe you?"

"You believe me because it's my will that you do," she answered, and her words made Harry feel undeniably nervous. He didn't like the idea that someone could control him, especially since even Voldemort's own Imperius had failed. How powerful must this mysterious Tara be? "As for what it means… consider the difference between 'live' and 'survive'."

"Live and survive." Harry considered, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the woman. "I suppose when you think of survive, you imagine there's something _to_ survive, a hardship or something?" he ventured.

"Not quite what I was looking for. Think of surviving as mere fact, as existing and nothing more. And living, think of that as implying some sort of satisfaction from the experience, even happiness. A bleak existence, as opposed to a fulfilling life. For Riddle, I imagine a fulfilling live would be one of victory and dominion and power. For you… well, you are young yet and your desires not entirely shaped, but I can tell at least that it would involve _not_ being the target of a Dark Lord, and being free from expectations, free to be happy. Consider the opposite now: bleak survival. To Voldemort that would perhaps be something like surviving years as a mere wraith, near-powerless after a defeat. And to you, a loveless lonely Muggle childhood, and even the wizarding world, which ought to be a place of hope, is marred by constant danger and troubles."

"Are you suggesting," he asked in shock and some indignation, "that my life is always shite because of some prophecy? Like I'm destined to be miserable until I get it over with and kill Voldemort, a psychotic madman with decades more magical knowledge and power than I have or, and I think this is bit more likely, until he kills me?"

"Sadly, yes."

"Well who made the stupid prophecy?" he demanded, righteous fury spiralling through him.

"Sybill Patricia Trelawney."

"Trelawney? As in Professor Trelawney?" Harry asked with understandable disbelief as to the credibility of the source. But then he remembered something. "Her second real prediction Dumbledore said, when she had that strange fit… or prophecy telling I suppose, about Pettigrew breaking free and rejoining him, helping him rise again."

"Have you heard any of the multiple-worlds theories?" Tara asked suddenly, seemingly apropos of nothing, and Harry's growing despair was abruptly replaced by confusion. "Well?"

"I take it you don't mean Earth, Mercury, Mars, Venus, etcetera?"

"I speak of alternate worlds and realities."

"Alternate realities?" He frowned. "I've heard it mentioned in the Muggle world, in fiction, but not in the wizarding world."

"Suffice it to say they exist, worlds where things have followed a different path. Not so many as some theories suggest though. A new world isn't created for every possible decision. Rather, they split off into separate branches, separate realities, for far more significant events. Events on a scale to alter reality, or at the least the very direction of fate." Then she tilted her head to one side, in a considering sort of way. "And also for smaller things, sometimes, when people play with certain time-travelling magics. But that's rare."

"Okay… and why are you telling me this?"

"Magic manifests in different ways, in different realities. Not all worlds use the spells you are taught at your magical school. I'm offering you an opportunity, Harry James Potter. An opportunity to visit other realities learn their ways of doing magic in hopes of finding, as the prophecy phrased it, a 'power the dark lord knows not'."

After confirming that yes, she was indeed serious in her offer, Tara faded from his dream, promising to return before he awoke to get his answer. It was a one-time offer, she had said, and personally Harry felt that a night's dreaming was not nearly long enough to consider such a monumental thing, but… well, she had put him into something called a 'lucid dreaming state' before she left, which allowed him to stay aware enough to not only think fairly logically, but also control his dream to his liking, which he used to conjure up the Gryffindor common room for his thinking time. Also… he _was_ a Gryffindor, and tended to jump into things with little second-thought at times, so he could cope with such a short time to consider. Not that it had seemed so short, in the end. Time was funny in dreams, he supposed; some seemed to zip by and others to drag on forever. In the lucid dreaming state, he seemed to spend days in the Gryffindor common room, thinking things over before she reappeared.

"So," she asked, climbing through the portrait hole, and approaching to settle into one of the squishy armchairs near him. "Have you reached a decision?"

"This is the only time I get this chance, right?" he double-checked, and she nodded. He took a deep breath, then took the plunge, "Okay, yes."

"Yes?"

"I accept your offer, to travel realities to find the 'power the dark lord knows not', whatever that may be."

And she smiled. "Well, I'd best send you on your way then."

"Wait!" Harry hurried to interrupt. "I needed to ask how long I'd be gone, and how many worlds, and can I take some stuff with me, and-?"

"You won't be gone any time at all, in this world; once your journey's done, you will return to this exact moment. As for how long you'll spend in the other worlds, and how many worlds… only as long as necessary."

"What does that mean?" he asked, but she ignored him, continuing on.

"And yes, you may take some of your possessions with you, but you won't choose which. I'll ensure you arrive in each world with exactly what you need. In fact, I'll be sending a companion with you for the first trip."

"Companion? Who?"

"You'll see. Good luck Harry James Potter."

Even as he opened his mouth to question her further, she waved a hand. The dream seemed to explode into light, and everything faded to white.

When the white receded, everything was dark, which was rather a reverse of how things usually went. Harry blinked his eyes open to a starry sky, with a moon hanging heavily off toward the mountains in the … east? Well, to his right, anyway. He was lying on what felt like soft grass, with a forest a short way to his right, and a plain spreading out into the distance to his left. At the farthest edge of the plain was a glimmering line that could be an ocean or lake, or some other body of water. Harry sat up and looked around.

"Hedwig!" he cried, spying his owl sleeping in her cage, set by his feet. She blinked awake, stared at the changed surroundings, and hooted in a confused sort of way, ruffling her feathers. "I don't know girl," he apologised. "Well, I know, but… I had a dream you see and a woman, Tara she said to call her, offered to send me to other worlds to learn magic to help with my Voldemort problem." Hedwig snapped her beak at him, giving him a beady sort of stare. "Yeah, I guess it sounds a bit ridiculous, and stupid for me to have just agreed so quickly, or whatever, but what choice did I have? I couldn't pass up the chance, not when everyone is counting on me to defeat Voldemort. I know, as I am now, I wouldn't stand a chance against him," he said, pleading for understanding. Hedwig hooted again, softly and more like a huff or sigh, and Harry knew she accepted his choice. "Here," he said, opening her cage, "why don't you spread your wings a bit while I see what else she sent me with. Just don't go too far, we don't know if it's safe here yet."

As his owl hopped from her cage and took flight, taking care not to wander too distantly from him, Harry looked around at the other items he'd been left with, thankful for the moon which lent him just enough light to see by. In a small pile beside Hedwig's cage lay his invisibility cloak, neatly folded, and atop it sat his wand. He grasped the stick immediately, feeling relieved it hadn't been left behind. He then searched all about him, even shook out his cloak, but there was nothing else. Not even a change of clothes, which meant he was to be stuck wandering about in his pyjamas.

With a sigh, Harry decided he'd sat about enough, and it was time to start looking around. He donned his cloak, just to be safe, and headed towards the forest, since the plain and distant water in the opposite direction seemed empty and without answers. After making sure Hedwig knew where he was going, he stepped past the first line of trees. It grew darker the further he went, moonlight hidden by the foliage, until he decided he needed to risk a little light.

"Lumos," he whispered softly and… nothing happened. He stared in consternation at his wand, and tried again. "Lumos." Nothing. "Lumos!"

Nascent worry grew as he tried other simple spells, then even some complicated ones, until he was trying not to outright panic. Forcing himself to breathe deeply, he closed his eyes and felt for that power inside him… and gave an almost sob of relief as he found it still there. Thank god, he still had his magic. He could even feel the tingling connection to his wand. And yet, none of his spells was working. Why-

"No," he whispered, in horrified understanding.

What exactly had Tara said? Magic was different in different realities, which was the whole point of this journey of his, to learn new magic. But, not all worlds used spells like his did, she'd said. He hadn't even considered the possibility though that she'd meant that in some realities spells just _didn't work_! He looked around the darkened forest once more, and felt suddenly very vulnerable and defenceless. He gripped his wand tightly, though he was almost certain now that it was all but useless to him here, and decided to head back to the plains where it was open and he could clearly see there was no danger.

He'd not taken more than a few steps however, when there was a rustling of leaves. He jumped and spun around and, rather pointlessly, raised his wand. Two eyes shined eerily out of the shadows. Harry backed slowly away, one step at a time. But then the creature steps forward, into a dim shaft of moonlight and… Harry stopped and stared. Then gave a sigh of relief, tinged with laughter. It was a badger. And yes, he knew wild badgers could cause damage, but this was just a baby one really.

He kneeled down. "Hello there," he said softly. "I've never seen an actual badger before. Outside of pictures I mean. And you're a brave one, aren't you?" he mused with surprise as it shuffled closer, and looked up at him. "And here I thought that was a lion trait, not a badger one, little Hufflepuff." And if he wasn't mistaken, it seemed confused by his words. Which was odd. "Don't suppose you know if there's any people around these parts. I'm sort of lost. Well, not really since I meant to come here, but I'm a traveller of sorts and I'm new to the—whoa!"

"Are you really?" Asked the badger, which had just shifted, quite unexpectedly, into the form of a little boy with bright, excited eyes. "Are you really the Traveller?"

"I'm _a_ traveller. I'm not sure about being _the_ traveller. I don't have the market cornered on it or anything." He then asked, somewhat impressed, "Are you an Animagus?"

"Animagus? What's that?" the boy asked, confused. Then confusion quickly dispersed, replaced by that excitement again. "But are you? The Traveller I mean? The prophecy said you'd turn up sometime this cycle. It would be so brilliant if _I_ got to be the one to meet your first."

"Prophecy?" Harry asked, instantly wary at hearing that word. "What prophecy?"

"Oh, I know it by heart." Then the boy cleared his throat, and assumed his most solemn expression, which was really quite adorable. "_And there will come a time of drought, and then great fire which shall be quenched with a great rain. Heed these events, for they are signs. In the fifth cycle following the calamities, when the land is recovered, a Traveller will come. He will be from afar, and come seeking knowledge. And our people will teach him, and he will take his lessons with him, to endeavour to save his own people. But never again will he be seen in the lands, and so never will the outcome be known to us._" Then the solemn look was gone, replaced by childish indignation. "Which I think is really unfair. We'll never know how it ends! What's the point of a story so grand it has a prophecy, if we don't get the ending?" He pouted a moment, then smiled brightly once more. "So, are you him? Are you the Traveller, here to learn?"

Harry blinked, a bit thrown by the boy's rapidly shifting moods. The energy, enthusiasm and excitement rather reminded him of Colin Creevey, though since this boy wasn't shoving a camera in his face and constantly asking for an autograph, he found it more bewildering than annoying.

"I suppose I must be this Traveller of yours then," he admitted, and smiled as the boy whooped in excitement. "Hey!" he exclaimed as his hand was grabbed and he was dragged through the forest. "Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you to the camp, of course," the boy said, practically bouncing along. He threw a grin over his shoulder and said, "I'm Sollindor, by the way, but everyone just calls me Solli. What's your name? If you have one that is. I mean, obviously you must have one. Everyone has a name, I think. But maybe your name actually is Traveller. Which would be strange. Kinda interesting though, and definitely unique," the boy babbled. "So? Is it?"

"No, I'm not called Traveller. I'm Harry."

"Nice to meet you Harry!" the boy chirped, with every evidence of enthusiastic sincerity.

"Yeah, you too Solli," Harry replied, a smile twitching at his lips as he considered that it was likely impossible to be gloomy around this kid.

"Come on, the camp's not far."

"Sollindor Destafie-Grathnell!" a stern voice yelled out.

"Uh-oh," Solli winced, "she must be really mad if she's using my full name."

Harry looked around. They were in a sizeable forest clearing, dotted with tents and campfires. The moment they'd appeared, they were spotted by a middle-aged woman who frowned and stormed towards them, yelling at his young guide. Judging by the tone of voice and, he could see now as she got closer, the resemblance the woman had to Solli, Harry suspected this might just be his mother.

"What in the all the gods and goddesses names were you _thinking_ young man," she asked, coming to a halt before then, folding her arms, and tapping a foot impatiently. "Well?"

"I, ah, just wanted to go for a walkabout in my spirit-form?" Solli ventured hesitantly. "It was feeling all neglected, since it'd be so long, you see."

"And while it is commendable that you were attending properly to your spiritual health, that does not explain why you chose tonight of all nights to do it, when it was your rota to help with the cooking. And more importantly, it in no way explains, or excuses, you choosing to wander about _without telling anyone where you were off to_! Do you have any idea how worried I was? I was about to send out a search party."

Solli was now hanging his head, bottom lip pushed out, and looking very well-chastised indeed.

"Sorry, mama."

"Yes, you will be, since you've just earned yourself a week straight on cooking rota." The boy groaned, but she ignored him, instead pinning her gaze suddenly on Harry. "And who might you be?" she asked quizzically. "You're obviously not of our people, and you don't have the looks of any other tribes we've encountered."

"He's the Traveller!" Solli jumped in to explain, excited once more.

Several other people, who had been watching the scene with mild curiosity, now showed a much more avid interest. Many came closer to make sure they could hear.

"What?" Solli's mother asked, shocked, staring between the two.

"He is mama, really. And I was the one to find him and bring him back!" Solli proudly declared.

"Are you really?" she asked, looking now straight at Harry.

"I think so ma'am. I'd never heard that particular title before, but Solli told me a prophecy that pretty much matches up to me and why I'm here."

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**ABOUT THIS BUNNY**: I had this idea where, as the title suggests, different worlds have different sorts of magics. So some higher power plays plot-device and sends Harry tripping through different ones to learn all these unique magic styles. Of course, the Potter-verse will be like the central, original universe from which all these alternates diverged, so all these magics are possible back home, only many have been forgotten, or never developed. Cue fun world-hopping, then Harry returning all magically skilled with forgotten arts and such.

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**Reviews make me happy (hint, hint).**


	5. 05: Perseus Black

**Posted**: 3 May, 2012

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything in this story that is recognisable from the Harry Potter books, movies, etc. Everything else however (eg. story plot, original characters, etc.) stems from my own imagination and belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended and I am not profiting financially from this story in any way.

**Summary**: Odds and ends, and bits and bobs. False starts and story ideas that fizzled out. Mostly Harry Potter, some other fandoms too.

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**05: Perseus Black**

Eyes stared down at a parchment missive in dismay until, with a sigh, Arcturus set it aside. He leaned back in his seat and considered the matter. He knew he ought to have dealt with situation long ago, and lord knew Melania harped on at him about it often enough, but he always managed to push the matter aside to contemplate another time. The Ministry notification he'd received yesterday evening however, of the death of his grandson Sirius in Azkaban prison, brought his attention to it once more.

Contrary to popular opinion, Arcturus's son Orion hadn't completely cast off his firstborn child, despite his wife Walburga having loudly made known her opinion that he was 'no longer her son'. She had been far too quick to dramatics that woman, so while she went about blasting Sirius from the family tapestry at Grimmauld Place, Arcturus and Orion had met and agreed that a complete disavowal was far too extreme a reaction to a teenage boy being sorted into an unfavourable house or even, some years later, running away from home. Honestly, given what a shrew Walburga had been, especially to Sirius, Arcturus couldn't really blame the boy.

That had all happened more than a decade ago now however, and in the time since then both his son Orion and daughter-in-law Walburga had died, along with their second son Regulus. In fact, a great number of the Blacks had passed in the latter years of the war and the time thereafter. The once sizeable family was dwindling. He knew it, everyone knew it. And the news that Sirius, who had become Arcturus's heir and thus heir to the House of Black when Orion passed, had now died too was a reminder of that fact.

Something needed to be done, Arcturus knew. With Sirius now gone the heirship fell to Arcturus's first child, his daughter Lucretia, provided she was willing to retake her maiden name of Black or at least append it to her married Prewett name. She was a passable candidate for heir he supposed, respectable and well-mannered at least, and she honoured their traditions. However, Lucretia was a mediocre witch at best, academically and in regards to magical power. Also, she and her husband Ignatius Prewett had been unable to have children in all their long years of marriage, which meant they wouldn't be producing the next heir for the line. That was several points against her.

If he chose to he could use her fruitlessness to consider her ineligible. No one would question it, thinking it quite reasonable under the circumstances. The Black line was dying off, and so the ability to continue it was a vital trait that the heir really ought to possess. But if he did go ahead and mark against Lucretia as an heir candidate, he would then have to pick one to groom from among the various other descendants of the family. That, he knew, was sure to result in much politicking amongst them all to be granted the honour. He tried to think of who might be eligible, mentally reviewing the Black family tree.

Both his own siblings were long dead without children, so next in line would be a descendant of one of his uncles or aunt. His father Sirius had been the eldest of five children. The second son, his Uncle Phineas, had been formally disavowed so he was irrelevant. The third son, his namesake Arcturus, had three daughters, all deceased. The first had married a Longbottom and if he recalled correctly the only living heirs of that line were the matron Augusta, her son Frank, and grandson Neville. The second daughter of his namesake was disavowed for marrying a Weasley. The third however married a Crouch, the only remaining descendant of that line being Barty Crouch. Then there was his Aunt Belvina who married a Burke and had a number of children and grandchildren and so on. His youngest uncle, Cygnus, had four offspring: Pollux, whose only surviving descendants were Bellatrix, her sister Narcissa, and Narcissa's son Draco Malfoy, not counting the disowned Alphard and Andromeda; Cassiopeia who was childless; Marius who was also disavowed for being a Squib; and the deceased Dorea of whose line only the famous Harry Potter remained.

None of the candidates seemed very promising. Bellatrix was in Azkaban as Sirius had been. Crouch Sr was rabidly anti-Dark and openly denounced his mother's Black roots. The Burke descendants were, every single one, involved in unrespectable businesses in Knockturn Alley from junk-shops to bordellos, the less said of the latter the better. Frank Longbottom was clinically insane and his son Neville a rumoured Squib, and it was known that Augusta had been unable to bear another child after Frank. Pollux, while not clinically diagnosed, was nonetheless unstable and quite sadistic (traits he'd passed onto his daughter Walburga and granddaughter Bellatrix). Narcissa and Draco were firmly under the thumb of Lucius Malfoy and though Arcturus respected the man, he knew very well he'd have his wife or son drain the Black vaults dry to add to the Malfoy fortune if offered the slightest opportunity. Cassiopeia similarly to Lucretia had no children, though not due to being unable as much as unwilling. The girl was a free spirit with an aversion for responsibility, and she was now far past her prime for marriage and children anyway. Then there was Harry Potter who was a Light icon being raised, if rumours were to be believed, by Muggles.

Sighing heavily, Arcturus rubbed at his temples where a headache was forming. This was such a mess of a situation and he wasn't sure what he could do to fix it. It was almost looking, much to his horror, as if he'd have to risk the Malfoy family. It was that or try to produce another heir himself and he was much too old for that, being well into his eighties. Oh not physically, for the magical aged much slower than Muggles, and could reproduce much longer also. He was middle-aged really, and thus technically able to father an heir. As with Muggles though, wizards could reproduce longer than witches, and it would be quite risky for his wife Melania to carry child at their age considering all the accompanying physical stresses. Besides, even if it weren't a risk, the fact of the matter was he didn't think he had the energy for raising another son or daughter from infanthood. Mentoring and grooming an already half-grown child such as Draco Malfoy, yes. Changing diapers and being woken in the middle of the night by squalling, no.

Before he could muse more on the situation, an owl flew in through his study window. The sharp-beaked and rather fierce looking bird dropped onto his desk a letter bearing the Gringotts crest, then swooped out again. After quickly checking it over with his wand and finding no harmful spells, Arcturus opened the envelope. Inside he found a copy of the will of his recently deceased grandson. He nodded, since it was expected. Sirius had been the heir to the family which Arcturus headed, so it was standard protocol that he be sent such a thing. He quickly skimmed over the document not expecting anything of much interest, only to pause and quickly reread a particular line.

_I, Sirius Orion Black, do hereby name my godson Harry James Potter my heir in all things._

Short, simple, to the point. And also completely shocking. Did he know what he had done, Arcturus wondered? No, of course not. The boy had probably thought himself disavowed as his mother Walburga loudly claimed. He couldn't have known he was still the legitimate heir to the family. Couldn't have known with that short sentence he'd named Harry Potter, boy-who-lived, heir to the House of Black.

Arcturus just sat staring at nothing for a long few minutes, contemplating what this would mean for the family. He could try to have the boy deemed ineligible, but couldn't really think of a reasonable justification for it. Besides, doing so would doubtless bring down the ire of his many fans. He could do it indirectly Arcturus supposed, by formally disavowing Sirius which would mean the heirship title was no longer his to pass on to the Potter boy. Yes, that was probably best. And yet for some reason Arcturus hesitated.

Would it really be so terrible, he wondered, for the Potter boy to be heir to the family? He had a Black grandmother so he was at least of the bloodline. And whatever had happened to cause the defeat of the Dark Lord seemed to indicate the boy had the potential to be magically powerful. His fame could also be an asset under the right circumstances. And the Muggle-raised issue could well help to cancel out the Light issue, if Arcturus played his cards right. Being raised away from the wizarding world, the boy would have few if any preconceived notions about things, and thus be more open to believing the first wizard to properly educate him on their world.

His mind whirring, Arcturus drew out a piece of parchment from one of his desk draws, pulled close the inkwell and quill, and started scribbling down ideas and plans. He'd have to do some investigation first to be sure the Muggle-raised thing wasn't a ruse by Dumbledore, with the boy actually being raised in some sort of pro-Light, anti-Dark brainwashing situation. Arcturus's course of action would depend on what he discovered, but he could plan for the most likely scenarios now and refine things later.

It was an hour before Arcturus set down his quill. He read over his notes, committing them to memory, and then promptly burned the parchment to ash, knowing better than to allow physical evidence of anything he didn't want other to know to remain intact. Arcturus then withdrew another piece of parchment from his desk and began to pen a letter to a contact of his, who could be trusted to look into the Potter situation for him and be discrete about it. For a price, of course.

..ooOOoo..

Arcturus stared down at the detailed report his contact had, after a month-long investigation, provided to him. He was utterly appalled by what he was reading. Though he'd never been quite as extreme as some of his family, Arcturus had never been a fan of Muggles. He considered them dangerous and inferior and this report detailed exactly the sort of terrible situation that proved his belief. Shock was quickly being replaced by anger in Arcturus. To think that Muggles should treat any wizard child, let alone one of Black blood and heir to their Noble house, with no less care or regard than a house-elf! It was unforgivable and inexcusable and could not be allowed to continue.

Mentally, he immediately discarded the plan that had, despite his distaste, involved playing nice with the Muggles and insinuating himself into the Potter boy's life as an uncle or mentor of sorts. In fact, all the potential plans that involved courtesy of any kind being extended to these Dursleys, or allowing the boy to remain in their care or contact, was stricken as a possibility. Instead it seemed he would have to go with one of his more extreme plans, considering the situation and the fact that Dumbledore undoubtedly knew what was going on, if his Squib informant planted in the neighbourhood was any indication.

Now, how exactly to go about this. He pulled out parchment, ink and quill—he always thought best when he could put his ideas to paper—and started scratching away. The wards reported were both surprising, since he'd never have expected Dumbledore to use blood magic, as well as powerful. There would be no infiltrating the place. So, if he couldn't get to the boy, the boy would have to come to him. It would be best if the Muggles themselves transported his heir out of the country, perhaps to one of the more extreme anti-Dumbledore pro-dark countries. The magic governments in such places would make things difficult for the headmaster, which would help muddy the trail. But how to get the Muggles moving...

* * *

**ABOUT THIS BUNNY**: So yeah, Arcturus will basically kidnap Harry, rename him Perseus Black, and raise him as his son and heir. So Harry will face the world and the rest raised as a pureblood, from a dark family, with all that entails. No much more to this idea.

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**Reviews make me happy (hint, hint).**


	6. 06: Neville Redo

**Posted**: 10 May, 2012

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything in this story that is recognisable from the Harry Potter books, movies, etc. Everything else however (eg. story plot, original characters, etc.) stems from my own imagination and belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended and I am not profiting financially from this story in any way.

**Summary**: Odds and ends, and bits and bobs. False starts and story ideas that fizzled out. Mostly Harry Potter, some other fandoms too.

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**06: Neville Redo**

It seemed ridiculous to Neville that he should be among the last. If someone has suggested to him, years ago, that the majority of wizarding Britain would one day be wiped out, his first thought would have been to name himself among the dead. Well no, that wasn't entirely accurate. His first thoughts would have been of horror and denial, but _after that_ they would have turned to predicting his own demise. Of course, all those years ago he'd been a bit pathetic all things considered, and low expectations for his self were understandable. Since then however, he'd grown more confident, powerful and capable. All the same, if he'd have had to guess who of his friends and close comrades would survive the Decimation, as it had come to be known, he'd not have put himself at the top of the list. Rather, Harry would have taken that spot, for a certainty. Hermione and Ron would have been up there with him too. And yet here Neville stood, the last Gryffindor of their year; the last of the DA too, for that matter; heck, he was the last of the Order of the Phoenix.

"Are you ready?"

He turned towards the grey-cloaked figure which had spoken and nodded, extending his hand towards him. Or perhaps it was a 'her', as Unspeakables tended to make their gender purposefully ambiguous. Hands clasped in a firm grip and a second figure, similarly attired in grey, but lacking the black stripe that edged the first's robes, stepped forward drawing a wand. Neville tensed instinctively but allowed the weapon to rest atop their hands.

"Let's do this," he said with as much confidence as he could muster.

The black-trimmed Unspeakable spoke again, asking him "Will you, Neville Longbottom, cooperate fully with our attempt to send you to the past?"

"I will," he said, and bright flame burst from the second figure's wand, winding about the joined hands.

"And in exchange, if the attempt succeeds, will you work to prevent the Decimation that has befallen our world?"

"I will," he said with determination. A second tongue of flame emerged and coiled about the first.

"And will you abide by the stricture of secrecy that we demand of you, telling no one you have travelled back from the future?"

"I will," he promised gravely, and a third burst of fire wrapped itself around the first two, and they all pulsed before fading.

Neville sighed and released his grip, all three of them stepping back. He absentmindedly rubbed at his tingling hand as he watched the figure whose robes were trimmed in black, the Head Unspeakable he assumed, begin issuing quiet directions. The second figure, who had been bonder of their Unbreakable Vow, joined with the two other anonymous witches or wizards in grey who had been lingering in the shadows at the edges of the room. These were the only other Unspeakables that were left, a seemingly small number, but in reality a high survival rate in post-Decimation, the highest of any Ministry Department.

The three lesser Unspeakables all descended the giant steps to the middle of the room. They approached and ascended the dais there. On it stood the centrepiece of the room: the Death Veil. Wands appeared, prodding and trailing over different parts of the stone archway. Incantations were heard in a dozen languages, some human and some not, some harsh and some musical, some whispered and some bellowed. At certain points they would cut a finger and swipe blood across the stone, and at others small jars containing water or salt or other element would be used instead. And, as the Unspeakables worked, various arcane runes and symbols on the archway lit up.

Eventually, after perhaps a half hour, they all stepped back and allowed their leader to inspect their work. The Head Unspeakable scrutinised the veil with almost obsessive thoroughness for another quarter hour before stepping back and nodding, apparently satisfied. He then turned and waved at Neville, who stood from the stair he'd sat down on during his wait, and stepped forward. He climbed atop the dais and approached the figure waiting before the Veil.

"You're sure?" he asked, though the question was more rhetorical than anything, asked for the purpose of having something to say.

"As sure as we're going to get. Just step through when you're ready. You have another two hours before our window of opportunity closes, so don't think to wait longer than that."

Then the figure stepped off the platform, leaving him alone. Only, not entirely alone, because he could feel them all there still, back in the shadows, watching and waiting to see their plan enacted. Neville took a deep breath and considered once more the risk he was taking, and everything that could go horribly wrong, ways that this could fail and do nothing more but send him to his death. It didn't matter though, he decided, not really. He'd made his decision, anything was better than the world he was leaving. The slightest hope was worth taking the chance. And besides, he'd already agreed under Vow, so his course was set. He was too committed to turn back now. Which meant there was no point dallying, really.

Neville stepped through the Veil.

..ooOOoo..

The pain was overwhelming, but not at all in the way of a Cruciatus. That was all sharp and spiking and tearing and fierce, it made you scream and cry and want to die. This though, this pain was numb like cold and aching, spreading all throughout and seeping into bone, and also something like fatigue, and then wrenching like loss.

It seemed to go on forever and for no time at all, but slowly, so slowly, and yet abruptly and all of a sudden, the pain was gone. Then, instead of pain, he felt weightless, and his head was spinning like he could faint, and he couldn't really think because his thoughts would fade before they could form, and his mind would drift.

Again, time was strange and immeasurable. Eventually though, after long, and yet soon and suddenly, there was a tugging, which became a whirling, twirling, terrifying sensation of movement that was not quite physical. And then it was like Apparating and being squeezed through a tube, or maybe like being sucked down a drain, and just when he thought he could handle no more…

He blinked his eyes open.

Was that the ground approaching at rapid speed?

A collision. The sickening sound of snapping bones. Pain!

He passed out.

..ooOOoo..

"—admit it Gussie, it's the only explanation!"

Neville awoke slowly, body aching, but through habit learned in long war, gave no indication that he wasn't still sleeping.

"That is entirely beside the point Algernon. You could have killed him. You nearly did kill him. And don't call me Gussie!"

"I'll call you Augusta when you call me Algie! Honestly, sometimes I wonder what my brother was thinking in marrying you, the daft idiot. It wasn't like he had no choice, there was no arranged contract."

"Don't you talk about my husband like he was a fool. Just because Willoughby chose me over your petty objections—"

"Bloody hell, he's long dead and still you insist on that name he couldn't stand. You know he preferred to be called Will."

"He's _my_ husband. I will call him whatever I wish."

Neville resisted the urge to roll his eyes behind their closed lids. His gran and Great Uncle Algie had often been like oil and water. It used to make him very nervous, their spats. Now though, with the memory of a world where he'd lost them, he instead felt something like amused exasperation. It was all very nostalgic to hear again. Sort of wonderful really.

"Forget it, that's not important right now," Algie sighed. "What's important is the fact that we finally know! No child with a drop of magic would have nearly died from a little tumble like that. If the boy was a wizard he'd have floated, or bounced. Hades woman, even a weak wizard would have cushioned the impact a little. But the boy just ploughed right into the ground."

"Because you _dropped him out a window_!"

Ah, Neville thought, now he knew where he was, or rather when. The rapidly approaching ground he first opened his eyes to must have been the incident when he first showed magic. His Great-Uncle Algie had been hanging him out the window by the heel, trying to force some sort of magic out of him, when Great Aunt Enid had distracted him and he lost his grip. Neville remembered the panic of falling and then the shock as he bounced all the way down the garden. His family had been positively joyous and Neville had been giddy with relief, and understandably so considering he was ten and a half years old. Neville had never told anyone just how late his first accidental magic had been, that he and his family had feared, up until a mere few months before he was supposed to start Hogwarts, that he wouldn't get invited.

However, from what he was hearing, it sounded like the incident had gone differently this time around. His mind churned, theorising that there was a combination of three reasons. For one, he'd been quite taken by surprise, returning to awareness in his younger self in mid-fall. He hadn't had time to register what was happening. Secondly, he'd been warned to expect some magical exhaustion when he arrived, so he probably hadn't had the reserves to bounce like last time. Not that it would necessarily have made a difference, since thirdly, his magic was no longer the untamed thing of most children, his adult magic having been sent back too. It was the trade-off of training as a wanded wizard, that in exchange for order and control over one's magic, the ability for the power to act 'accidentally' and instinctively, such as in life-threatening circumstances, was all but lost.

"And a good thing I did too," Algie was heard to growl. "Now we know for sure, don't we, that the boy's nothing more than a _Squib_."

Neville's internal flinch at his great uncle's derisive tone was followed by an even sharper one as his grandmother then spoke up.

"Yes, yes, it's clear now the boy's nothing but a disappointment," she said briskly, angrily. "But we aren't one of those dark families Algernon, which holds with simply killing off disgraces to the line!"

"I wasn't trying to kill him. I was trying to get some magic outta the boy."

"And almost killed him in the process! Hanging him out windows, pushing him off the pier, stranding him on the roof, locking him out during a snow storm, closeting him in a room with a boggart … all these test I approved. They were perfectly acceptable ways of trying to instigate some magic because with our supervision, while frightening, they were still _safe_. Dropping a potential Squib out a second story window on the other hand, is _not_ safe."

Neville had to struggle not to react and give himself away. Gran had approved of all the things Great Uncle Algie did to him? The tests hadn't been merely frightening to him as a child. Rather, he remembered his great uncle's presence in his childhood, until he finally displayed some accidental magic, as one that brought fear and terror and uncertainty. He never knew what new horror the man would spring on him, or when. It wasn't till after he bounced down the garden that the tests stopped. He remembered crying from sheer relief and joy when Great Uncle Algie gifted him with Trevor, and cherished the toad as physical proof of his great uncle's approval, and reassurance that the tests were over. To hear that his gran had actually approved of the tests that terrorised his childhood, rather than being aloof and disinterested as she portrayed, was a crushing blow.

"It was an accident, alright?" Algie grumbled. "I didn't mean to drop him. But what's done is done and now we have an answer. What're we going to do with the boy now?"

"Well, we're not going to drop him from heights for a start," Augusta said sternly. "_We_ are not the likes of the Blacks, or Malfoys, or Mulcibers, or _Lestranges_." The last was said with particular disgust.

"Give it a rest! I've said I didn't mean to hurt the Squib."

She sniffed. "I think it would be best to find a reputable Muggle orphanage to send him to. The sooner he leaves the wizarding world behind, the sooner he can adjust to the Muggle one. It will be a kindness to him, in fact."

"And what of the Longbottom Estate? With Will gone and poor Frank as he is, its Neville's by right."

"I am aware of that Algernon," was the impatient reply. "I _have_ served as the boy's regent for the last nine years. But he only inherits so long as he has magic. Once September first comes and no letter arrives, we'll be able to have him disinherited. Control of the estate will revert fully to me. Yes, that will be ideal. I'll have full access to the accounts once more, and be able to make sure the boy is properly financed and cared for by the Muggles."

Neville had to struggle not to react. He was shocked and dismayed at his family's reactions. His great uncle was speaking about him like he was a disgusting worm. No, not a worm, for his great uncle was a Herbologist and worms were good for the soil; rather, he spoke of him like an aphid, a despised garden pest. And gran, she was cold and dismissive and talking about _sending him away to the Muggles_! Oh certainly, she spoke of it being 'a kindness to him', and how she intended to make sure he was 'properly financed'. She wasn't going to just dump him out on the streets somewhere. And yet, that didn't make him feel much better.

These just were _not_ the people he remembered! His great uncle had been a jolly, if rough and reckless man. His grandmother, while strict and formidable and often disapproving, had now and then shown true pride and belief in him. Only… that was _after_ he'd proved to have magic, wasn't it, a traitorous voice whispered in his mind. And his gran's moments of greatest pride were when he reminded her of his father in magic and attitude. He wanted to deny it, but looking back at long ago memories proved it true.

He wondered how he'd forgotten it, but supposed that one _did_ tend to idolise the dead and lost, forgetting faults and embellishing strengths. He'd seemingly done just that, because now that he really thought about it, the only one to really give him an ounce of affection before he showed accidental magic, apart from Pip their house-elf, had been Great Aunt Enid. And he wasn't sure how much that counted for, because his great aunt was a bit dim and perpetually cheerful to absolutely everyone. Sometimes Neville suspected that if Voldemort attacked her she'd stop to compliment the shade of his eyes and offer him tea.

The lethargy he'd been feeling, but been pressing back in favour of assessing the situation, grew greater. He flickered his eyes open just enough to see that he was in a white hospital room, but not enough for anyone to notice he was awake. Then, satisfied for now, he let himself drift off to sleep. He would consider the situation with his family when next he awoke.

..ooOOoo..

"Do you understand Pip?"

"Yes Master," the house elf nodded solemnly. "If next time Pip sees you, Master does not cough three times, then Pip is to dispatch the letters."

"Good, good," Neville nodded, stomach turning. "Head back home and speak to no one of this without permission."

"Yes Master," Pip said, bowed, and popped way, leaving Neville alone in his hospital room.

..ooOOoo..

Only long practice and hard-earned confidence kept Neville from fidgeting as the lift ascended.

A ding sounded. "Level two: Department of Magical Law Enforcement…" a smooth female voice sounded.

Not waiting to hear further, Neville stepped through the open doors and out into a hallway. A quick glance at the map on the wall opposite gave him directions, then he was striding left down the corridor. He eventually came to a stop outside an imposing oak door and hesitated. His hand reached into his pocket, fingering the Hogwarts letter that had arrived early that morning, before his gran returned to see him. He'd hidden it, that final necessary piece of his plans. Then he'd set Pip his mission, a backup just in case, before making plans to sneak out once his gran left. And now, here he was.

It was no small thing that he planned to do, he knew that. He was very, very afraid that his gran and great uncle would never forgive him, for as appalling as their attitude was upon mistakenly deciding he was a Squib, they were still family and he loved them. But his completing his mission, and having the freedom to act, were both of far more import than sentimentality. It was essential that he could act without restriction. Without things like having to fear being dumped off into a _Muggle orphanage_ because he didn't meet expectations.

Squaring his shoulders, he took a deep breath and knocked on the door. A voice called for him to enter, so he grasped the handle and turned, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

"Hello," said a grey haired wizard, sitting behind a large desk. "This is the Office of Lineage Affairs. Are you sure you have the right place, young wizard?"

"Yes," he said firmly, pushing away any doubt. He closed the door behind him. "I need to have my regent dismissed on grounds of heir endangerment, and claim control of the family estate."

The older wizard straightened in his seat. "That's a very serious request," he said gravely. "You do realise such an act, in combination with such charges, may well bring public shame and censure upon your regent?"

"I know," Neville said reluctantly. He sighed. "I hope it won't come to that though. I'd like you to act as an intermediary to negotiations, and see if this can be done peacefully and quietly first."

"That is certain within my job description," the wizard nodded, picking up a quill to take notes. "I'm Isaac Applegarth, by the way. Can I get the name of the estate in question, your full name, and the full name of your regent? And after that, I need the details of endangerment"

"The Longbottom estate, I'm Neville Frank Longbottom, and my regent is Augusta Elisabeth Longbottom née Prewett. As for the endangerment…"

..ooOOoo..

"This is absolutely ridiculous," Augusta spat, glaring at Applegarth a long moment before turning her fury on her grandson. "Get up Neville. We're going, right this instant, you stupid boy. You shouldn't even be out of hospital until later this afternoon. Sneaking out like this, and for such a reason! Of all the ridiculous—"

"No," Neville said firmly, strongly, letting none of his pain and uncertainty show. His gran stopped and stared at him in surprise, doubtless unused to seeing him so confident. "Gran, just listen first, okay?" Then he looked away from her, almost dismissively. "Mr Applegarth, if you could continue?"

"Mrs Longbottom, as I said, your grandson approached me to have you dismissed from your post of regent, and take control of the Longbottom estate."

"On what grounds?" she demanded, still spitting mad.

"Heir endangerment," was the crisp reply. "That you did knowingly and wilfully approve of various hazardous…" He paused to consult his notes. "I believe the young sir called them 'tests'. You approved various tests to be performed upon him by your brother-in-law, one Algernon Longbottom. And that the most recent test, which involved…" Again he glanced at his notes, before looking up at Augusta with clear disapproval. "It involved suspending him out a second storey window, from which he was dropped—"

"It was an accident!" she cried assertively, though she looked less confident than before. "Algernon lost his grip."

"Be that as it may, he was nonetheless dropped from a great height, as a direct result of the hazardous circumstances you approved of. Consequently, the young sir was admitted to St Mungo's hospital."

"Honestly, such fuss," Augusta sniffed, trying to dismiss the claims. "He's perfectly well now, all healed up. No harm done."

"Madam, your grandson arrived at hospital in critical condition. I have Healer affidavits that for the first day it was believed he would not survive. He then spent two further days in a magically induced coma to heal his spine, only barely escaping permanent paralysis. Also, the coma allowed the swelling in his brain to subside and heal, so that no permanent brain damage was incurred."

Applegarth was blunt and relentless in explaining the injuries, and Neville was guiltily pleased to see his grandmother flinch and pale. He knew deep down that, of course she cared that he'd almost died. But the recent revelations of her behaviour, and how she'd been planning to send him away, had brought old insecurities to the fore.

"Yes it was _terrible_, and I do truly regret the harm that came to Neville," Augusta admitted with genuine remorse. "However, I swear that no harm was intended, ever."

"But harm was caused. And not just in this instance. Also, not just physical. Mr Longbottom here has described his time in your care as 'near-constant fear for his safety', 'a terrorised childhood', and 'severely lacking in affection'."

Finally, his grandmother faced him again. "Neville?"

"I'm sorry gran," he said, voice quiet but firm, "but it's all true. I spent years being terrified about what Great Uncle Algie would do to me next. I never felt safe. And you…" For the first time his voice was less than strong. Pain was heard in the words as he said, "You _approved_ of it all."

"We just wanted the best for you. To see you realise your potential."

"My magical potential you mean," he said. "Because without magic, I'm all but useless to you."

"That's not it at all!" she objected loudly, offended.

"I heard you both at the hospital," he cut in before she could say any more. "You decided I was a Squib. And what else did you call it? Oh yes, a 'disgrace to the line'. You're planning to have me disinherited and shipped off to the Muggles. If I don't have magic, I'm not even worthy of being considered your family anymore." He wanted her to deny it, say he'd misheard, or that she'd misspoken. But she sat silently, head bowed in uncharacteristic humility, and his heart ached. "It's always been about dad really, hasn't it?" he said quietly. "All my childhood all I ever heard was tales about how wonderful he was, and how I never measured up. If I couldn't do something he could at my age, I was a disappointment. If my accomplishments weren't ones he'd accomplished, they weren't worth noticing. But I'm not Frank, grandmother, I'm Neville. I shouldn't need to be him to be worthy." He sighed. "Do you know, I don't think I have _ever_, in the last twelve and a half years, heard the words 'I'm proud of you' pass your lips. Not even an 'I love you'. That's no way for a child to grow up."

Silence followed. He stared at his grandmother until she looked up, met his eyes, and then looked quickly away. She swallowed before speaking.

"I regret that my actions have caused you to feel this way Neville," she said with dignity, but quietly, so unlike her normally forward manner. Then she drew her form up, as if bracing herself, and directed her next words at Applegarth who had sat silent while they spoke. "But that as may be, it doesn't change the fact Neville is not yet even elven years old. He is _far_ too young to take up the estate. He's nowhere near his age of majority yet."

"There are provisions in place, allowing an underage wizard in his situation to gain a limited declaration of majority, with certain conditions," Applegarth countered. He explained, "They must be a confirmed witch or wizard, either attending a magical school or receiving comprehensive magical tutoring. At least four OWLS must be taken and passed before they reach their traditional majority, or else run the risk of adult status being withdrawn and withheld till twenty-one. They must also have the financial means to support themselves, and hire a financial manager to help oversee their estate until properly of age. Then there are the minimum of three personal advisors they must appoint, again till of traditional majority, to provide magical and cultural guidance, and act as a voting board for medical proxy in case of emergency."

"I see. But there still remains the fact that…" She trailed of, hesitating, before raising her chin and boldly continuing. "It doesn't change the fact Neville is a Squib, and thus cannot meet the magical requirements."

"Actually," Neville cut in, frowning at her as he withdrew an envelope from his pocket and tapped it pointedly on the desk, "the magic requirement _isn't_ a problem." He held the envelope up so the address could be seen, then flipped it over to show the recognisable crest in the wax seal. "This arrived this morning. My letter from—"

"Hogwarts," Augusta whispered. "But we thought it wouldn't come."

Neville watched as his gran gave a sobbing, relieved laugh. Her eyes were bright and there was pride in them. The sort of pride that had become more common as he grew older and bolder, facing down Death Eaters and being appropriately Gryffindor, living up to his father's reputation. The sort of pride that in his earlier years he never saw, because being just Neville wasn't enough apparently. And just like that, that warm and happy feeling he used to get every time his gran showed she was proud of him, spluttered out and died away. He swallowed and glanced away from her, feeling a bit like something precious had died. He looked towards Mr Applegarth beseechingly and the man obliged his silent plea, reviving the discussion.

"If lack magic was your only point of contention Madam Longbottom, then perhaps we can get this agreement signed quickly."

Of course, that _wasn't_ the only point of contention Neville's gran had, not that he was surprised. Augusta Longbottom was nothing if not stubborn. It took hours of argument and urgings and making of points, not to mention the subtle threat of the scandal a public charge of heir endangerment would bring upon her, if she refused to handle the matter privately, before the matter was settled. Eventually though she did sign the contract after reading it over carefully, seeing no other choice. Neville did the same and then Mr Applegarth signed as witness.

As Augusta got up to leave the room, Neville thought that he'd never seen her look so defeated. Even the day she died she'd gone out looking defiant. Now though, she seemed somehow so old and tired. In a surge of compassion he called to her as she reached the door.

"Gran?" She looked back at him over her shoulder, expression proud and dignified, but eyes sad. Neville attempted a smile as he asked, "Will you consent to be one of my advisors?"

"Me?" she asked, sounding surprised, which was perhaps understandable given the circumstances.

"Yes, you. I know this was an unpleasant business, but I _do_ love you gran," he said quietly and watched her press her lips together and look up at the ceiling blinking rather rapidly. "I think I could benefit a great deal, having you as an advisor."

"I see." She nodded. "Yes. Very well, I accept."

"I'll forward the paperwork to you by tomorrow," Mr Applegarth promised.

She nodded again, and left.

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**ABOUT THIS BUNNY**: Because who doesn't love Neville, the wimpy character who became all awesome? Mix awesome-Nev with time travel and voila, a story idea. Oh, and some mild bashing of Nev's family too because, seriously? They so have it coming.

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**Reviews make me happy (hint, hint).**


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